Enduring love
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: Ten years after coming back from the world of the dead, Sherlock Holmes finds himself having his own family with his best friend, Jane Watson. But soon he discovers that Moriarty is not dead, not everything is what it seems, and appearances can be deceiving. Fem!John Schizophrenic!Sherlock. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

The five year old child knew this was a lot not good. Mummy and daddy (specially daddy) had already warned, not only her, but nanny that soap operas were not to be seen by children and that it could cause her brain damage. But the child, and nanny, couldn't help it. Today was the last episode and the child, and nanny, needed to know whether the girl and the boy lived happily ever after.

The child was sitting on a nice, comfy sofa and nanny was pressing a tissue to her eyes when the girl and the boy married. They kissed, held hands and keep saying 'I love you' to each other. This made her think about her parents: she had never seen them kissing or holding hands or saying 'I love you' to each other.

She wondered why mummy and daddy never held hands when they went to the supermarket, or when they went to the hospital where mummy worked at, or when they went to the chinese down the road, or the shop next door to buy sweet things to her when she had been a good girl. She had seen people holding hands and kissing, but her parents never did that and she wanted to know why.

The little girl drank more of the chocolate milk her nanny had prepared for her and waited until the couple from the soap opera kissed one last time and 'The End' covered nanny's tv screen. Then, she thanked her nanny for the chocolate milk, took three big cookies nanny baked for her and headed for the stairs. She practically jumped all the seventeen steps that separated her house from nanny's and found daddy was still working.

The five year old girl stepped in and glanced at the pile of papers in the living room, the dummy hanging from the ceiling, which was wearing daddy's clothes, and the big map of London all spread on the floor. Immediately, the girl knew mummy was not going to be happy when she got home: mummy always argued with daddy when the flat was dirty with things related to daddy's job.

She turned to the kitchen and found a similar disaster there. The sink was full of dirty cups and dishes, the floor was covered by old newspapers and daddy was sitting at the table and using his new microscope, a present mummy had given him for his birthday.

She sat across her daddy and waited. Long minutes passed and daddy continued working. Dragging a chair to the counter, the girl found a clean dish and placed the three cookies she took from nanny. Then she placed the plate in the middle of the table, with his chocolate milk and decided daddy should have them because she didn't remember his daddy eating any breakfast or lunch.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock didn't need to look up from her microscope. The particles he was analysing were the key to solve the case. If the suspect had been to those places he said he had, and then the case was a total mystery. He was the only suspect and –

"Why you and mum never kiss?" The five year old asked.

Silence. Sherlock finally was getting somewhere. Dust, brick, vegetation. Yes. He lied. Of course he did. He killed his wife to get his hands on the insurance and save his company from bankruptcy –

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Why you and mum never hold hands?"

He knew he had to call Lestrade and tell him all about it. The suspect wouldn't run away, not when he could save his family business. Besides, he had children and Sherlock knew what parents are capable of when they have children. He was a parent himself and he knew he would do anything for his child –

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Why you and mum never say 'I love you'?"

Now he put the evidence aside and turned to his daughter. The five year old girl was sitting across him, drinking chocolate milk and eating cookies he wished she wouldn't because he thought too much sugar was always bad for kids. Maybe he should talk to Mrs. Hudson and tell her not to give his daughter those cookies and –

"You've been watching that thing again," Sherlock said, clasping his hands together and sighing heavily. "Two cookies? That's a record."

"Jenny and Mark married and lived happily ever after!"

"Jenny and Mark?"

"Yes, daddy. Mark's evil brother tried to kill him but Jenny saved him and Mark's evil brother's in jail now. So Jenny and Mark got married at the end."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are not allowed to watch soap operas."

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you love mum?"

"Of course I love her." Sherlock said, standing up and cleaning up the table.

The little girl helped her father by taking the dirty cups to the sink so he could wash them. "But you never kiss or hold hands."

"And?"

"That's what most couples do."

"Where did you get that idea from?" The detective asked, washing the cups and cleaning the counter.

"Mrs. Turner's married ones kiss and hold hands," the girl started explaining between sips of her chocolate milk. "And in the streets people hold hands and kiss too and they do that in telly and movies."

Sherlock frowned. He dried his hands and leaned on the counter. His hands were resting on his hips as he looked down at his daughter and wondered where she was getting such ideas from.

Ah. That soup opera. They should definitely have a word with Mrs Hudson. While he thought it could cause his daughter some kind of brain damage, his wife said it was all fine, that some silly story wasn't going to hurt her more than seeing him dissecting fingers or toes or putting eyeballs into the microwave.

"We don't need to hold hands or kiss like other couples do."

"Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We just don't."

"You're weird." She smiled and started helping her daddy cleaning up the living room. "Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"You love mummy, right?"

"Of course I love her."

"She said she loves you too."

Sherlock smiled a bit. "I know. And I love you too. Now, your mother's coming soon. Why don't you help me cleaning? I'll let you chose supper."

"Dim sum!"


	2. Death at Appledore

**Death at Appledore**

"The problems of your past are _your_ business. The problems of your future are my privilege."

Nothing was ever going to be the same again. Of course it wasn't. That flash drive was burning on the fire and those initials, A.G.R.A, meant nothing and everything at the same time. A past, a name, a whole life no one will ever know about was burning and there was no back up, no copies, nothing. That life left behind was burning, being attacked by the fire to disappear forever.

No one needed to know who A.G.R.A was.

Not even Watson.

"Don't drink the tea," Sherlock Holmes said, stepping into the room, and hell he had the right to do so, it was his house after all, or his parents', but it was their moment. "Or the punch."

"Sherlock?" He asked, watching his wife sleeping on the couch and giving no signs of waking up any time soon. "Did you just drugged my pregnant wife?"

Sherlock Holmes checked her breathing. "Don't worry. Wiggins is an excellent chemist."

Holmes' homeless friend nodded in agreement. "I calculated your wife's dose myself. Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on 'er."

"He'll monitor their recovery," Sherlock added as he adjusted his coat and scarf. "It's more or less his day job."

"What have you done?" He asked. "You just drugged my wife and your family. Why?"

Holmes looked at him in a way he felt he has never been looked at before.

Trust.

Sherlock Holmes trusted him.

"A deal with the devil."

"But... what's this? Tell me you haven't just gone out of your mind."

"I'd rather keep you guessing."

The two men walked outside. It was cold so he felt his jacket's warmth protecting him from the wind and from that helicopter waiting for them.

"Ah, there's our lift."

He grew more and more confused as Sherlock led the way to the helicopter. Where was he taking them? What was going on?

"Coming?"

"Where?" The other man asked.

Sherlock Holmes has proved him he could always surprise him. There was always something. Nothing was typical when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was Sherlock, and all the things Sherlock did, they just made him who he was. Sherlock.

"Do you want your wife to be safe?" Sherlock asked him.

The man didn't doubt. "Yes. Of course I do."

"Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous," Sherlock commented matter of factly. "One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we've ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us."

Ah. He should have known. Of course he should have. It was Sherlock Holmes.

And even though the mission seemed risky, he had already said it and he wasn't going to change his mind for anything in the world. He wanted his wife and their child to be safe and Magnussen was a threat to their safety. But not to their love anymore. That flash drive with the initials of that name already forgotten, unused, was burning inside the house and no one would ever known what it had inside.

"But it's Christmas," he added, trying to give this whole situation a different meaning.

Sherlock smiled. "I feel the same." But soon the detective realised what the other man meant. "Oh, you mean it's _actually_ Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?"

"Why would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner?"

"Is it in your coat?"

"Yes."

"Off we go then."

The other man followed him. But still, he didn't know where they were going. Or who were they facing. Or what were they dealing with. "Where are we going?"

"Appledore."

Was it a coincidence that Appledore was just minutes away from Sherlock Holmes bloody house?

"She forgave you."

"Yes, Sherlock. Brilliant deduction."

"I actually eavesdropped on your conversation," admitted Sherlock, not regretting any moment of it.

The other man snorted. "Of course you did."

"The walls are quite thin."

"I know."

"Of course you do."

"She went to you," the man turned to the detective. "for advice."

Sherlock said nothing.

"I don't want to know what you told her -"

"You lied to her from the beginning. You also made use of her weakness for sociopaths, psychopaths and her strange tendency for trouble and chaos. You liked her from the first moment, but you lied." Sherlock looked at the other man. "I told her the truth."

Nothing else was said.

The man was waiting for them. Appledore looked like nothing both men had never seen before. The luxury was ignored, because that was not what they were looking for, nor what they needed to pay any attention at.

What they were looking for were the vaults, the files, the information. He and Sherlock were looking for that folder with that name written on it. What they were looking for were that information that threaten their lives.

Because the man wanted his wife and their child to be safe.

Sherlock Holmes, like he, was willing to give everything to get those files. Sherlock asked, inquired, demanded but Magnussen was taking none of it. That man, that business man, had all the power needed to control a whole government - and therefore a country and they had not merely scratched the surface. They were at Appledore and they were in the very heart of Magnussen's little kingdom of vaults and files and information that could topple of the most powerful of government, regimes, celebrities.

Magnussen opened two wide doors were the supposedly vaults were. Sherlock and he couldn't believe it.

"The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don't you, Sherlock?" Magnussen said, but Sherlock remained silent, as the other man standing next to them. "How to store information so you never forget it – by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes and down I go to my vaults."

Magnussen sat down in front of them and closed his eyes and his hands moved as if he was taking, opening and reading a file. "I can go anywhere inside my vaults… my memories."

There were no vaults. There were no files, no folders, no information, nothing. There was nothing else but a white room, a chair and nothing else.

"Naughty," Magnussen said, his eyes still closed. "Killed and harmed many people, huh? This is one of my favourites. All those wet jobs for the CIA. Oh! Freelancer now, wicked."

Sherlock looked at the man standing next to him, but remained silent. He didn't need to read those files to know what was written on them. But he understood why he had once listened that their love could end if that information was known.

"So there are no documents. You don't actually have anything here."

Magnussen smiled at him. "Oh, sometimes I send out for something if I really need it. But mostly I just remember it all."

The man shook his head. "I don't understand. You just remember it all?"

"It's all about knowledge." Magnussen explained, his eyes now on Sherlock. "_Everything_ is. Knowing is owning."

"But if you just _know_ it, then you don't have proof."

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don't have to prove it – I just have to print it." Magnussen said, stepping out of the room. "Speaking of news, you'll both be heavily featured tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me. Let's go outside. They'll be here shortly. Can't wait to see you arrested."

He knew the procedure. Not so deep inside him, he knew he himself and Sherlock Holmes weren't able to stop this, to stop Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Not in a civilized, normal, mundane way.

"Sherlock Holmes and Matthew Morstan, stand away from that man."

It took both men less than two seconds to recognize the owner of that voice – Mycroft Holmes. There was another helicopter, several armed men approaching the building and suddenly, they had more than fifty guns pointed at them.

"To clarify," Sherlock almost shouted so Magnussen could hear him. "Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there."

"They are not real," Magnussen explained, his eyes on the helicopter. "They never have been."

"Sherlock Holmes and Matthew Morstan. Step away." Mycroft repeated.

The armed men were getting closer and closer and Morstan understood. "Sherlock, what do we do?"

"Nothing!" The magnate said. "There's nothing to be done! Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. _You_ happen to be one of them! Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes."

Of course. He should have known it. He should have. He really should.

Now Mostan understood this completely and regretted not kissing his wife's lips before leaving.

_"_Sherlock Holmes and Matthew Morstan, stand away from that man. Do it _now_." Mycroft repeated, more firmly this time.

Matthew turned to Sherlock and nodded. Who else could do this? He was a serial killer, raised to kill, trained to memorise, read any code, fake accents. But now A.G.R.A was gone and he was no longer doing those things. He was no longer on the run. Now he was Matthew Morstan and he was prepared to do anything for his wife and his child. Sherlock Holmes was someone the world, and his wife Jane and their child needed.

The world didn't need another trained killer, another liar.

And no one else would look after Jane and their child like Sherlock Holmes would.

Morstan knew how much Sherlock cared for Jane. And knew what Sherlock said. Sherlock advised Jane and told her she should go back to her husband because he loved her and he was the father of her child. Despite of all the lies, Jane still loved him no matter what.

Matthew Morstan took his gun from the back of his coat. When Sherlock saw him he was about to stop him and take the gun off his hands to do it himself, kill Magnussen himself when Matthew smiled at him. "Promise me you'll take care of them."

"What?" Sherlock asked, scared. This was not on his plans. This shouldn't be ending like this. "Matthew –"

Magnussen cried for help and Morstan pulled the trigger. "Merry Christmas!"

Charles Augustus Magnussen's dead body hit the floor. Matthew smiled relieved as he turned to face the armed men who were ready to kill him and the helicopter. He raised his hands in surrender.

"Man down, man down!" was all the armed men said.

"Get away from me, Sherlock!" Matthew said, looking at Sherlock who was next to him, still standing, still not believing what had just happened. "Stay well back!"

Sherlock went mute. He suddenly didn't know what to say and even if he could, he could say no word.

"Tell Jane I love her." Matthew said before being killed. "Tell her she's safe now."

They shot him. And Sherlock lost count of how many bullets hit Matthew's body. His best friend's husband.

He simply lost count and fell down to the floor.

"Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft almost screamed. "I repeat: do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!"


	3. Black rain

**Black rain**

The day of the burial was one of the coldest days so far. It was so cold he felt the urge to give his friend his own coat and protect her from the strong winds, the threatening rain and, as if a piece of fabric could, protect from the pain this was causing her.

Certainly, people needed to be said she wanted to be left alone. Apparently no one knows that when attending a burial. Lots of people that neither of them knows went and praised the dead man... as if those praises, those empty words full of nothing but compromise, because that was exactly what they were, words of compromise, could bring Matthew Morstan back.

Black was an horrid colour for people to wear (now). Some were wearing brand new suits, some had to dust down and wash their clothes. Old ladies wore long, dreadful dark dresses and matching sunglasses. It wasn't even sunny. Sherlock hadn't given too much thought to his own choice of clothes when he dressed himself that morning before going to the burial. But his friend was wearing black and it didn't suit her. Black never did, never would. White suited her better but yet, Jane was not getting married but saying goodbye to her husband.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure of his own thoughts. The detective couldn't give a proper and real description of the feelings he had, if he ever had and felt, about this man who was being buried just now. Matthew Morstan was his best friend's husband, Jane's husband, the man who was with her the night he appear and announced to the entire world Sherlock Holmes was not dead but soundly alive.

Had they met before and in other circumstances, Sherlock and this dead man would have surely become good friends. If something this dead man possessed was something called a good soul and a brave, honest heart. Despite of the lies he said, Sherlock, and Jane too, were certain Matthew Morstan was a good man with a good heart.

Three years ago when Sherlock jumped into what seemed to be his own 'death', he left his best friend alone and no one was there to pick up the pieces of the broken heart he left. No one, not Mrs Hudson or Greg, who were the closest to her after him, of course, could ever fix Jane Watson's heart. No one. The detective could be a manipulative machine capable enough of knowing how to fake his own death and make it look, instead of a freak's show, like a masterpiece. But Sherlock couldn't calculate how much pain Jane was bound to feel.

Doctor Morstan was so angry when he appeared. _Do you know what you made her go through?_ was the first thing he ever said to him when Sherlock advised Jane about her new look. Later on he thanked Sherlock for having the guts to tell Jane long hair never suited her.

Sherlock looked at his friend's hand, her wedding ring still present, and regretted not ever telling Matthew how grateful he was. Jane never told him about those two years in which he was away. Not like they sat down for tea and they told each other about their whereabouts, their adventures, the new job Jane had, the new flat she and Matthew were renting, how she got those lovely cups for a good price or the house they wanted to live in once married. Sherlock never told Jane about his secret missions, the places he had been to, the nasty food he had the misfortune to eat or the nice lady who let him have a proper bath and prepared him a nice meal after he had helped her son to find his missing dog in Czech Republic. But Greg said Jane was happy.

Greg Lestrade was also present and he, contrary to the other people present, didn't say a word of comfort or how good that dead man had been and how unfortunate was that he had to die (when he had actually been killed).

"I think you should take her to Baker Street."

"Already arranged."

Greg nodded. "Take yourself a couple of days off. Stay with her."

"I will," Sherlock agreed.

"Why don't you come for tea next week?" Mrs Hudson asked the DI of the NSY. "I'm sure Jane will like to see you. You're her friend too."

"Thanks Mrs. H."

The only one allowed to say comforting words, soothing whispers and not exactly words bound to die in the air was Mrs Hudson who felt for Jane, now Watson again and not Morstan any more, a love old ladies like her only profess for their own children. That is exactly what Jane and Sherlock were to Mrs Hudson; two grownups with their ups and downs who were very good friends, who had shared a flat for almost two years, lived countless adventures and sometimes forgot to pay the rent or the gas bill in time.

And the only one allowed to hold her was he.

Now everyone was gone and they were alone, facing a cold stone with a name engraved on it and nothing else. Behind the dark sunglasses his friend was wearing so no one would see her bloodshot, tired eyes from crying, Sherlock knew those blue orbs were clouded by tears he wished he could stop. Behind those thin, pursed, almost colourless lips Sherlock knew was a scream of pain.

And under her cold hand upon her stomach, Sherlock knew was a child who would never meet its father.

When Jane, still not looking at him, took his hand, Sherlock remembered the moment she told him she was getting married and that she wanted him to be at her wedding. She knew he was going to refuse because, of course, there _would be people_. He had missed her birthday, the only one she had while living together and she said she would never forgive him. Now Jane said he was her best friend and that if he didn't move his arse and went to her wedding she wasn't speaking to him any more. Sherlock obliged, composed a song he himself performed with his violin and announced, just to her and her husband, that she was pregnant.

Sherlock went through every detail when they were preparing the wedding. The detective made his little research and advised Jane and her then fiancé where to sit their guests, which wine was the best, and, after eating eight slices of what Jane said was the same cake, Sherlock himself said chocolate cake was the best option.

However, there's always something; Jane said she would never forgive him for not dancing with her after the wedding and for leaving early without saying a word.

Now words seemed too superfluous.

Inside a cab, Sherlock had Jane's luggage and he was taking her with him. In no condition his pregnant friend would live alone and in the house she shared with her now dead husband. No. And Jane said nothing about it because she didn't have the strength to speak.

Their landlady left saying she would prepare food for her and her old room upstairs. Trying to be cheerful, Mrs Hudson also said Sherlock was trying knitting and that she should definitely take a look at the things he's been working on.

It was true Sherlock was trying knitting because, as he once said, it could always come in handy. You never know when you get to find an old lady and the key to solve the case was on her knitting. But the things he'd tried to knit for her friend's baby were horrendous and no one sane would ever want their baby to wear them.

Her grip was tight when she leaned on him, an unspoken gesture that she needed someone to hold her. Sherlock's impossible long arms were around Jane when she finally broke down and cried. Heavy tears rolled down her face and she let them all fall. After all, it was just water. Her baby wasn't going to miss anything if she cried a few tears, would it? The detective pressed a kiss to the top of her head and let her cry for as long as she wanted to in his arms.

No word was spoken until they arrived at 221 B Baker Street. There is where Jane took off her sunglasses and glanced around the flat she hadn't been to in a long time because, believe it or not, married life takes all your time away and now you have a job to go to every day, a house and a husband to look after, bills to pay, meals to cook, a garden to keep clean... or that she had and now it was all gone.

"Looks different from my days." Jane commented, her voice hoarse. "Where's my chair?"

Sherlock took off her coat and scarf. "It was blocking my view."

"And that cot?" Jane immediately asked once she found a small, spare cot close to the windows, all covered with white sheets and fabrics since no one, not even her, knew whether she was expecting a girl or a boy.

"For the baby."

"You didn't need to."

"I wanted to."

Jane smiled bitterly. "I need to lie down."

"Mrs Hudson prepared your old room. I brought your things."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Let me help you with the stairs."

"I can manage."

Jane went upstairs to what used to be her old room. There she found her bed made, her luggage on the floor, the cot her husband cot for their baby and a bag full of baby clothes and toys. The windows were closed so the room wouldn't be cold but the curtains were open. From there she could not only see the row of flats or the city before her but also the sun set in and now it was dark. There were no clouds in the sky and that made her remember those days she spent during her childhood, looking at the sky, trying to find any shape for those clouds she believed were people's souls that were in heaven.

Matthew was a good man, but he said so many lies she considered leaving him once. He wasn't the doctor she thought he was but a trained killer with enough skills and talent to kill the most protected man on Earth. The moment she learned Matthew had been the one who shot Sherlock she thought she would never forgive him. Matthew Morstan wasn't even his real name and suddenly Jane didn't know the man she was married to. And he was her baby's father.

That's what she told him that Christmas morning at Sherlock's parents'.

_You're the father of my baby. I don't care about your past. But I want to be your present and your future._

Jane leaned against the cold windows of her room and remembered that lovely Christmas morning, their last time together at Sherlock's parents'. There was a firm knock at the door and soon he was stepping into her room holding something Jane couldn't really look at. Her eyes were bloodshot and the minimal exposure to light made her wince.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, sitting next to her on her bed and handing her her old mug. "Mrs Hudson said you need it."

"Thank you, Sherlock." Her voice was sore, almost a faint whisper in comparison to his.

The detective had never been good with sentiment or emotions and he quickly felt out of his depth and regretted his decision of going to his friend's room. He knew soothing words were never good after all.

"Stay."

"I don't know."

"I've scheduled us antenatal lessons for next week," Sherlock commented, completely out of the blue. "And a breastfeeding workshop too."

Jane smiled a bit. "Are you going with me to that one too?"

The detective shrugged. "I don't know. Should I go?"

"I... God, I have so much to do before this baby's born."

"William Sherlock Scott."

"Hmm?"

"If you're looking for baby names."

* * *

**Notes:**

**Antenatal classes/lessons can help mothers and their partners to prepare for labour, birth and early parenthood. Some classes focus mostly on labour and birth, while others guide you through late pregnancy, and what life with a newborn baby will be like. Classes that are either run by the NHS midwives, or are paid for by the NHS, take place at hospitals or children's centres.**


	4. Breaking news

**AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

* * *

**Breaking news**

"You think Mrs Hudson will mind if we have some people installing a lift?" Jane let out a long, tired sigh as she finally sat on her chair after a long day. "Those stairs will be the death of me."

The detective sat across Jane after taking his coat and scarf off. His eyes immediately focused on her prominent swollen stomach, imminent, definite proof she was pregnant and welcoming a child in a couple of weeks.

"God, she's kicking again."

He watched as Jane smiled, her blue orbs on her belly, both of her hands caressing her stomach, saying soothing words, asking her baby to stop kicking because it hurt far too much.

A week after Matthew Morstan's death, both Jane and Sherlock have been attending to antenatal lessons where both learnt what to expect during birth, the different processes, how mothers will realise when it's the moment and how to breathe. Jane already knew many of these things, she was a doctor after all. But Sherlock took all this new experience quite seriously and religiously went to every lesson with his friend and took down some notes. He didn't go to the breastfeeding workshop though. He simply accompanied Jane to the door and waited until it was over. Later, they would go out for tea and a walk around the park because her obstetrician said it was good for her.

So despite of all the books he was reading, including the famous '_What to expect when you are expecting'_, pregnancy was still a mystery to Sherlock Holmes. He knew biology and he knew how women get pregnant. Sherlock knew the whole process of fornication which, eventually, leads to a pregnancy. He knew that babies are meant to stay within their mother's womb for nine months. Sherlock knew Jane was three weeks from having her child.

But what Sherlock didn't know was what it feels like to have a child. He knew he was never going to procreate because to do it, you need a woman and women were not his cup of tea. Men either. No one, nothing was his cup of tea and he knew there will not be a Holmes after himself or Mycroft. Mummy and father could stop asking and hoping and dreaming because there will never be a child coming from either him or his brother.

Not _naturally_.

However, the fact that he was not having his own child didn't mean he didn't want one. Like the fact that he didn't like either women or men. He didn't like either, he just liked Jane.

Sherlock didn't wish to procreate with Jane Watson. Sherlock wished to be given her child.

"I wish to be the father of your child."

Jane stopped caressing her baby bump and looked up at Sherlock, at his friend, who had both hands clasped together and tightly pressed under his chin. The thinking position. "You have been taking Mrs Hudson's herbal soothers, haven't you?"

He rolled his eyes. "I want to adopt your child."

"What's this? Are we in some TV prank thing or –"

"Is all that hormonal activity that comes with maternity affecting your brain?"

"Are you seriously asking?"

"Do I usually joke?"

"No." Jane snorted. "I just don't see why you'd want to adopt a baby – _my_ baby."

"I've been thinking about it and I can give you a number of reasons that will eventually make you understand the benefits of it," Sherlock started. "I have no intentions to procreate and generate an heir that will inherit my genes. The probability of finding a clever woman in London is one out of one million – give or take. I find the process of procreation not to my taste and, talking about genes, there's a high probability that my offspring may inherit my condition."

"Sorry – your condition?" Jane interrupted him. "What condition?"

"I'm a highly functioning sociopath."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am, Jane. I present myself as something I'm not – and this is a primary characteristic as well. I mimic feelings and empathy. I don't actually feel or care but may pretend to further myself. I'm very destructive, whatever level I function on." He felt Jane's eyes on him. "Don't worry; I'm on the bottom of the list. I can be very analytical. I see my life as a game of chess where everything is calculated."

"So you want to adopt my baby because you don't want to have your own – because you think they'll inherit your problems."

"Yes."

"And because you don't want to do things like people normally do?"

"Yes."

"Finding a girl, marrying her and all that stuff?"

"Yes."

"Plenty of orphans out there. You can even ask Mycroft to get you some little genius made in some secret lab sponsored by the government."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "By adopting your child I won't be the only beneficiary. She will have my name, will be financially protected and supported until she reaches adulthood and already has a place in any university within this country." Sherlock rested his hands on both knees and leaned forward on his own chair. "You are worried because you don't know whether you'll be able to play both roles – mother and father. As you can see, you'll also get some benefit out of all of this. You might as well think about it."

"You want to buy my baby?"

"Not exactly."

"Then I don't get it" Jane said, not understanding the matter fully. "Why _my_ baby specifically? She's gonna be as normal as the others out there. And you don't do normal, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock had countless reasons. He was not having a biological child, no matter if the woman was clever or if surrogacy promised him a child with no problems – at least not the same he had. But he wanted Jane's child just as much as he wanted her.

And he was not sure if Jane would understand it.

Jane sighed. "Besides, my baby has a father."

"You know that's not true. Matthew Morstan never existed. There's nothing on the records more than a still born baby born in October 1972. He has no family, no friends, no past."

She went mute for a moment.

"I don't know what I'll say to my daughter the day she asks about her father," Jane started crying. "I don't know who he was, what he did. I don't even know his real name. I'll have to lie to her."

"Don't you wish to know?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I'll hate him." Jane placed a warm hand on her prominent belly. "It scares me."

"You're safe. What Magnussen had on him is gone."

Jane nodded, already crying. "For God's sake, Sherlock, he fooled _you_."

"You're afraid of who he was."

"I… I have my suspicions, about what he did before we met. He got into Magnussen's office, remember? He could've killed him right there without leaving a trace. He knew where he had to shoot at you and to not cause any damage." Sherlock remained silent. "You investigated him."

"Yes," admitted Sherlock. "Shortly after his death. I don't think you'll be proud, but if it's of any consolation, he was the best at what he did."

"I was married to a top trained assassin _and _doctor, God," Jane snorted, sarcastically. "Thank you very much, Sherlock."

"I thought you wanted to know who you were married to and who you procreated a child with."

"I don't want to know who he was or what he did before we met. What I want to know is why my baby. She's the daughter of an army doctor with a tendency for psychopaths, sociopaths and danger and a trained killer and oh, a doctor too. Far from good, isn't it."

"I want a child and you're having one – alone. I'm a man, you're a woman – we can be her parents. I have a degree in chemistry, a good job and I'm financially solvent – as women would say, I'm a perfect match."

"Why?"

"Because you're my friend."

"I..." Jane trailed off and felt her baby kicking again. "I don't know what to say. My baby will need a father... that's true."

"Is that a yes?"

"I need to think about it," Jane admitted. "But d'you really wanna do this? I mean… you're practically adopting her and it'll be forever. You won't be able to un–adopt her, so to speak."

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I hadn't thought about it."

"Okay. Since when have you been thinking about this?"

"Since Matthew died." Jane glared at him. "What? Not good?"

"A bit not good, yes. Anyway, I was going to write a will and appoint you as my baby's legal guardian."

"Were you?"

"Of course. Who else could look after my baby besides you? I don't have anyone, well, Harry's always travelling with his new boyfriend. My parents are both death, I don't have an extensive family. Matthew was an orphan... or that's what he said. Mrs Hudson is far too old to take care of a child." Jane smiled to Sherlock. "Sorry, but if something happens to me you're stuck with my baby."

"What could happen to you?"

"I'm not that young. I could have complications during childbirth. And family's history doesn't help."

"You're thirty–six," Sherlock frowned. "What complications?"

She sighed. "Plenty of miscarriages in the family. When I was born my mother almost died."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything, Sherlock. I've scheduled a meeting with my obstetrician next week. We'll discuss the best choice for me. Feel free to come too."

"Of course I'm going."

Jane smiled. "Well, there's no much difference between being the baby's legal guardian and her father, right?"

"No court would ever give me the full custody."

"That's right. We could ask Mycroft to pull some strings for us."

"Out of the question."

"What happened between the two of you to be like this? He cares, Sherlock."

"Sibling rivalry."

"Okay," Jane's smile disappeared. "If you adopt her... it'll be forever. You got that, right?" Sherlock nodded. "Right. Are you conscious of the things that come with simply writing your name in the registration forms and signing them? She'll have your name and you'll always be known as her father, at least legally speaking."

"I wish to be her father legally and in practice" Sherlock interrupted his friend. "I understand that fatherhood is not based only on taking decisions upon her destiny, such as which school she should attend to or which religion she should profess. I'll be there when she starts taking her first steps, when she falls ill or when she wants to go to the park. I'm willing to be her father in every sense of the word."

Jane looked at him surprised. She had not only considered appointing Sherlock as her baby's legal guardian in case something happened to her, but she had also thought about asking him to be her baby's godfather. But being her father? Adopting her? Since when Sherlock Holmes wished to be a father, take a little girl to the park, decide which school was the best and so on?

Surprised as she was, Jane tried to recall any moment when Sherlock might have given her a clue. He never seemed interested in children. Actually, it seemed children bored Sherlock.

When her husband died and she moved in with the detective, Jane thought once the baby was born she would have to move out because maybe Sherlock and her baby wouldn't get along well. But the detective bought a spare cot to be placed in the living room, kept not only the fridge but also the cupboards and the microwave clean, he made the shopping and even went to her to countless shops to buy clothes and toys for her baby.

It seemed Sherlock cared. But did he care just because she was his friend? Or was he really interested in adopting a child and becoming a father?

"She'll want to call you 'daddy', you know."

"I know."

"Okay."

"Is that a yes?"

"Let me sleep on it, okay?"

"Would you marry me?"

"Okay," Jane stood up from her chair and, placing both palms on her knees, she closed her eyes tightly. "Now it hurts."

The detective practically ran to her side and started rubbing her back, soothingly. "Is she coming now?"

"No, but she's kicking far too much."

"We're going to the park." Sherlock said, helping Jane with her coat and taking his.

Jane groaned. "But we've just got home! And I wanna eat."

"The doctor said walking helps. We can eat something out."

Sherlock helped Jane with the stairs again and then both walked to the park in comfortable silence. Jane hooked her arm with his and both walked slowly, for long minutes, until they reached the park. It was a lovely winter afternoon, not so cold, not warm, but lovely. The park was full of kids running to and fro, playing football, others just playing hide and seek, girls playing with their dolls, dressing them, competing who had the most beautiful one.

Sherlock found an empty bench and helped Jane to sit and noticed people looking at them, giving them loving looks and both knew they were being mistaken for a couple. Groups of women (Sherlock deduced were a group of friends who took their children to the park) looked at Jane and smiled at them. Couples, young couples who were not even married but were contemplating the idea, gave them similar looks.

It was strange for him to be thought as a husband and a soon–to–be father. It seemed so un–Sherlock. Not logical. They weren't even wearing wedding rings. The fact that Jane had her arm hooked with his didn't mean they were a couple and yet they got lots of looks.

"You meant it?"

"Hmm?"

"You know what I'm talking about. Why on Earth would you marry me, Sherlock?"

"Because I'm a man and you're a woman and I'm adopting your child. It's the most logical thing to do. We're going to be parents. Might as well get married."

Jane shook her head. "I have to think about it yet. I didn't say yes, did I?"

"You will."

"What makes you think so?"

"I know it," Sherlock's eyes were on his shoes now. "I also know you'll marry me."

Jane snorted. "Sherlock, do you know what marriage is? What it implies? We're not a couple and we don't even love each other."

"Wrong."

"Sorry?"

"I know what marriage is," He turned to face her. "I know what it implies and no, we're not a couple. Neither of us has any romantic feelings for the other. What you and I have is called platonic love."

She sighed heavily. "Okay, this is the moment when all the cameras come out and you tell me this was a joke."

Sherlock said nothing.

Then Jane realised Sherlock wasn't joking. "Platonic love?"

"Are you deaf?"

"Why you never told me?"

"When I came back you were getting married."

"You should've told me."

"You loved him," Sherlock turned to face her. "Could I have changed your mind?"

"I dunno... no, well maybe yes. I mean..." Jane looked into Sherlock's eyes. "You said you were married to your work."

"I _was_."

"Sherlock... you never showed any interest in anyone. You had Moriarty flirting with you and Irene bloody Adler trying to get you to bed. No wait – and Janine?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "I needed to get into Magnussen's office."

"So you... you never, you know."

Sherlock looked at her confusedly. "What?"

"She said you were a sex machine!"

"Ah," He smiled. "Resentment. I was waiting for our wedding."

"You were never marrying her, Sherlock."

"Exactly."

Jane frowned. "I don't understand."

"I just like you." Jane went mute. "I could never profess any material attraction towards your body for physical pleasure and reproduction." Jane looked at him confusedly. "There's nothing wrong with you. I'm sure despite of your current state, many men still find you sexually attractive."

"Well… thanks?"

"I do not pursue a romantic relationship with you. I'm asexual. Physical contact is not a need for me." Sherlock confessed.

"If you don't do romance or sex, then why you want to marry me?"

"You know more than me than marriage is not based in sex. It's an important part of it – the physical attraction. But not vital."

"How do you know that?" She asked in a futile attempt to make Sherlock understand nothing like a marriage could ever happen between the two of them. "You've never been married."

Sherlock looked into her blue eyes. "Because that's what we've been doing since we met."

"The only thing we've been doing since we met is living together and that doesn't mean anything." He looked at her slightly hurt. "Not in... not in terms of love, as you say."

"_Please_. You asked me out."

"No, I didn't! When?"

"At Angelo's. The first time we went."

"I wasn't."

"You moved in with me and saved my life in less than twenty–four hours after we met. Once I almost burnt the flat down, if you don't remember, and I also ruined your favourite jumper. I called you stupid more times than I can recall and you never left me. When I faked my suicide you turned down the romantic advances of many men and you didn't go on a date for two years until you met Matthew Morstan. You practically mourned me like a wife would mourn a husband. You cared."

She didn't say anything.

"By marrying you, the only thing that will change between the two of us is our legal status. Our relationship will remain the same, being of intimate companionship and affection that doesn't require any sexual involvement. I'll obviously keep on providing you with my company and support in whatever you want to accomplish in life." Sherlock said softly. "I'm aware of your sexual needs – that I can't obviously please since I'm asexual. That should be the only impediment in having a perfect marriage and I understand sex is an important part in a relationship, for you obviously, but that can be fixed. No, I'm not saying I'll hire someone to have sex with you. I'm willing to engage in sexual activities with you if that's what you need to function as a human being. I'll look after you like husbands do, I suppose... and as I promised Matthew I would."

Jane looked at him confusedly. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

"Well, you can say yes, but I'm sure you want to sleep on it."

"Yeah!" She bit her lip. "And I don't need to have sex to function as a human being! Where did you get that from?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow sarcastically. "Everyone needs sex, Jane. It's within our human nature."

"What, d'you need sex too?"

"No. But as I said, I'm willing to engage in such activities with you only."

"_Only_!" She said sarcastically. Then, Jane went silent for a moment. "Oh my God, I think I'm having this child now!"

"Really?"

"No! It was an expression. It seemed appropriate."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You obviously need time to think about it and I understand that, but you still have an opinion on the matter."

Jane looked away and started taking air through her nose and then releasing it from her mouth.

"Are you having contractions?"

"No, she's kicking again."

"Do you want to go back to the flat?"

"Yes, I think I need to lie down."

Even though they were relatively close to Baker Street, Sherlock hailed a cab. Once they were back, the detective helped Jane with the stairs, worried she might have contractions and her baby might come before time.

"I don't think I can manage any more stairs."

"My room."

"I can use the sofa."

"Nonsense." Sherlock helped her to get into his bed and put some pillows behind her back so she could sit comfortably. "Is it okay?"

She nodded. "Thank you." She sighed and leaned back on Sherlock's comfy pillows. "All right, I just need to check again: are you pulling my leg?"

"No. And if you need any more proofs," Sherlock opened the top drawer of his bedside and pulled out a little velvet box. "There. Open it."

Jane opened the box. There were two golden rings. One was smaller than the other one. She took the smaller one off the box and looked at it in silence.

"You're really serious."

"Are you finally convinced of it?"

She tried the ring on. "You even got my size!"

"Of course."

"I can't accept it."

"They were expensive, yes. I can get cheaper ones if you –"

Jane handed Sherlock the box with the rings. "No, Sherlock. I can't marry you."

"Why?"

"Because I just can't. I mean..." her eyes immediately fell on Sherlock's, who were expectantly waiting for a reason. "What if we get married and... I dunno... someday you fall in love with someone else?"

"I said I don't want anyone else but you."

"But I don't love you." Sherlock remained silent. "As my friend, yes. But not like... like I used to love Matthew."

"I have feelings for you that are not of a romantic nature. As I said, by asking you to marry me I'm not pursuing a romantic relationship but a long lasting friendship that can't be contemplated by the laws of our country – so marriage seems appropriate, don't you think?"

"What feelings, Sherlock?"

"The ones I have for you."

"But what if I fall in love with someone else?"

Sherlock leaned back on his chair. "Fair point."

"I'm sorry."

"Yoo–hoo!" They heard their landlady in their kitchen.

In the kitchen, Sherlock found his landlady carrying a tray with tea for two. "Thought you might need it."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"Is she okay?"

"Yes, just tired."

"Remember –"

"Yes, the bag."

"And the number of the ambulance –"

"Yes. Already memorised."

"If you need anything –"

"Yes, I'll shout your name. Now leave."

Sherlock took the tray to his room and realised Jane had fallen asleep. He knew she was tired. He sat next to Jane's side, on the other side of his bed, and watched her as she slept. There were no visible changes: her round cheeks were healthily pink, as her lips, which had acquired a new colour as pregnancy advanced. Her blonde hair, now cut as a bob, was like a frame for her face. Jane had a hand on her stomach, a thing Sherlock got used to see quite often. Her nails were long now, just a bit and Sherlock noted she had beautiful hands. Small, creamy, soft too.

The detective felt rejected. Rejection hurts, it always did. Sherlock never cared for other people's rejection. But this time he really cared because Jane had rejected him.

The detective closed his eyes. He felt tired. Tired as he hadn't felt in a very long time. Sleeping wasn't his favourite thing to do but right now he felt he really needed to close his eyes and rest.

As he had once listened to in one of those films Jane liked so much, he had a day full of emotions. Just after attending one of the last antenatal lessons, he decided to open up with his friend. It was finally the right time to tell her about his desires and wishes: adopting her child and marrying her. That was what he wanted. Why looking out for what he already had at home? To have a family he needed a woman to get married to and then a child. And at 221 B Baker Street he had Jane and her child. It was logical.

It was logical.

He felt something warm covering his body and a pair of soft lips against his. Too soft. The taste was too sweet. Good. It felt good.

He responded to the kiss clumsily due to his lack of experience.

And when those lips left his, he opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it was – okay, I think."

Jane looked at him, expectantly. "Did you feel anything?"

"The taste of Mrs Hudson tea."

"No, I mean, if you felt anything... _different_."

"Oh."

"Did you?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged, as he touched his lips with the tips of his fingers. "I think so. You?"

Jane bit her lip. "I don't know if what I felt was what I think it was or if it was just the hormones."

"What did you feel?"

"I liked it."

Sherlock nodded. "Me too."

"Okay," Jane breathed.

"What do we do now?"

"Well... if we liked it, we should keep trying," Jane said, blushing. "But we don't need to do it if you don't want to."

Sherlock leaned forward. "No, it's – okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Kiss me." Jane said, blushing.

The detective turned his body, and, still sitting on his bed, he faced his friend, but didn't blush. When she had closed her eyes, he went for her pink, inviting lips. They kissed. Their seconds kiss was shy, a bit clumsy – both were clumsy. Still both were eager to meet each other's lips and see what could come out of this.

After her husband died saving her from his own past and from all those things Magnussen had, Jane thought she would never marry again. She gave up that part of her life that defined her as a woman and decided she would only be a mother of a little girl she thought she would have to raise alone. But now Sherlock was proposing. Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes, that insufferable friend she loved (as a friend – now) and flatmate who had been attending to antenatal lessons with her because he said that it was knowledge that someday might come in handy was asking her to marry him.

And Sherlock bloody Holmes was also asking her to give him her child because he wanted to be a father – and only of her child.

And, at the top of the list, Sherlock bloody Holmes was kissing her like no man has ever done it before and she liked it.

Jane had both hands on the back of his neck and her short, soft fingers were caressing the skin there, the dark curls and sending shivers down his spine. She soon felt his long hands on the back of her waist, his long fingers like massaging her lumbar and his thumbs making circular movements on both sides of her swollen stomach.

They were so close. The only thing that kept them from being fully glued together was Jane's baby bump. But Sherlock was still close to her, close enough to feel her baby's moving inside her.

He gained confidence when he felt Jane's hands on his collarbones, her short fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. He had no much training, but he knew the need of skin – her need to feel his skin – meant he was doing it right because she wanted more. That was the moment when he decided it was the right moment to make their kiss deep.

They met their tongues and they kissed feverishly for long minutes until Jane's hands migrated from Sherlock's neck and collarbones to take his own hands. He took the clue and, without opening his eyes, both laced their fingers, still kissing as if they were two teenagers.

The more Jane pulled Sherlock close, the more Sherlock deepened the kiss and more they liked it.

"Ouch!" Jane complained, breaking the kiss, pressing a hand to her stomach as soon as she felt her baby kicking again.

Sherlock looked at her for any signs of pain. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it was... just the baby kicking." Jane blushed. "God, no one – and trust me – no one has ever kissed me like _that._" Sherlock looked at her confusedly. "It was a compliment."

"Oh." He noticed she was blushing. He couldn't quite look into her eyes as he wished he could but he could see her breathing was not normal. "Did you like it?"

She nodded.

"Me too."

"Right. Let me see if I get it. You said we are in love – platonically speaking, and that we should get married because it's logical, given I let you adopt my baby." Sherlock nodded. "Okay. Tell me what platonic love is. I mean, what is exactly that you feel for me."

"What I feel for you is an emotional connection that I've never had with anyone else. I have feelings for you, but, as I said, they are not of a romantic nature. I feel no sexual desire towards you, but an affectionate kind of feeling that can be labelled as 'love'. You can look it up on the dictionary: 'A simple example of platonic relationships is a deep, non–sexual friendship between two heterosexual people of the opposite sexes'." Sherlock explained. "That's what we are. We're in a relationship where we both have feelings for the other, not of a romantic nature, and we can function without having intercourse. We care and we constantly worry about the well being of the other."

Jane looked at him, surprised. "I understand the definition and I feel… flattered, really. But I don't know if I feel the same."

"Of course you feel the same."

"How can you tell?"

"Your constant failing romantic relationships before Matthew Morstan. There was nothing wrong with you, but your boyfriends always ended up dumping you because you always put me before them. The key to the success of your relationship with Matthew, and that you finally got married, is that I was 'dead'."

"Shit, Sherlock."

"Am I wrong?"

Jane leaned back on the bed and rubbed her forehead with her hand. Soon, Sherlock could see little tears rolling down her face.

"I'm sorry."

"What are you apologising for?"

"I didn't mean to upset you. I know you haven't still got over the loss of your husband. I understand both of my proposals, plus your current state and the hormones are like a hurricane of emotions."

Jane looked at him. "Hurricane of emotions?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I could've waited to ask you, but she's coming in two weeks – probably less, first pregnancies do not always reach the due date and..."

"I'm not upset, Sherlock. You've just told me you want to be the father of my baby and you proposed and we were kissing and I liked it and... and I don't know what to say. I still love Matthew and..." She took her hand. "I love you as my friend but I don't know if that's enough."

"It's enough for me."

"It's not fair for any of us."

"I said I was willing to engage in sexual activities with you if that's what you need."

"It's not the sex, Sherlock."

"Yes, it is."

"It's not. I don't want you to do things you don't want to."

"But I'll do it for you."

"But you don't like it, Sherlock," Jane looked away. "Don't you see? It's not fair."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know what else I need to do or say to make you understand. This is beyond the promise I made to Matthew. I could easily look after you and your child without marrying you or adopting her. I could still be your flatmate and be appointed as her legal guardian. It's the same."

"Then, if it's the same, why you want to marry me and adopt my baby?" Jane asked, exasperated.

"Because by marrying you and adopting your child I'll be able to look after you two properly."

"What?"

"Once you start dating again, you'll surely find another sociopath, psychopath, killer, or terrorist you'll want to get married to. You'll take your child and leave. And when you discover that that man wants to plant a bomb in the parliament or kill the Queen, you'll come to me – again. I want to spare you the pain of finding trouble out there when you already have it here. I'm a high functioning sociopath who can protect you and your child who doesn't even have a father and not because he's dead," Sherlock looked into Jane's eyes. "but because you don't know who he truly was and what he was capable of. You don't even know what you'll tell your child the day she asks about him. And you don't want to tell her the truth: that you fell in love with him because he was a top trained killer and that's what you liked."

Jane bit back a sob. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Nothing you should apologise for. I merely miscalculated you. I'm not enough for you."

Both looked at each other. The detective couldn't help but let his friend take his hand. She placed it on her baby bump.

Sherlock felt her baby kicking for him.


	5. Forty-one weeks

**Forty-one weeks**

Jane almost jumped on her armchair. She quickly rubbed her eyes and saw Mycroft Holmes standing at the door of her flat. An umbrella almost working as a walking stick – Mycroft's trademark – made her smile as she nodded and yawned. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Good morning, Jane," the politician stepped in and gestured Sherlock's chair, which was across Jane. "May I?"

"Yeah, of course. Tea?"

"That would be lovely, but," Mycroft smiled politely. "Given your current state, I presume walking results a difficult task."

"Milk, two sugars for me, thank you."

Mycroft prepared the tea and Jane had to agree she had never tasted such a perfect infusion. It was just a tea bag, hot water, milk and sugar, but damn, Mycroft could really prepare a very good tea.

"So," Jane placed her mug on the small table next to her chair. "What can I do for you? If you want to know where's your brother –"

"I know here my brother is."

"Okay. Good. That's good then."

Mycroft finished his tea and smiled. It as quite an horrid smile, Jane thought. Not gracious but macabre, somehow cruel. "What I wish to know is your decision."

"My decision?"

"Yes."

"What are you talking about, Mycroft?"

"You know what I'm talking about, Jane."

"Oh God."

"Exactly."

"How is that you know every single thing that happens here?"

Mycroft cocked his head. "I care about my brother."

"But there are private things, you know."

"There are no 'private things' when it comes to my brother."

"Yes, there are."

"No, there are not."

Jane took a deep breath and looked into those green eyes. "He wants to adopt my baby." Mycroft nodded. "And he proposed." Another nod. "He just left. I don't where he's gone. I tried calling him, sent him around one hundred and sixty-two texts and he hasn't replied any." A nod. "Hold on – you know where he is?" A fourth nod. "Is he angry at me?" Mycroft shook his head this time. "Okay. Good. And... is he coming back or...?"

"Sherlock is leaving Baker Street."

"What?"

"He's currently living in an apartment I own five streets from here. My people will pack his things in..." Mycroft glanced at his watch. "Two minutes."

Jane couldn't believe it. "But... why? Is it because I don't want to marry him?"

"You should ask him yourself."

"But... this is his flat."

"Not any more."

"But..."

"Ah, here they are," Men in black suits and wearing matching sun glasses got into the flat and headed for Sherlock's room. Jane swore they packed every single piece of clothing that belonged to Sherlock in less than five minutes and suddenly Mycroft was taking Sherlock's violin. "Well, you may receive his visit in a couple of days. He was taking his things himself, but he's on a case at the moment."

Soon Jane felt tears clouding her eyes, but she decided not to let Mycroft see them. "Of course. Sure. Tell him I'll be here. I can't even walk any way. Won't go anywhere."

"Good bye, Miss Watson."

It took Jane a couple of hours to realise Sherlock left. She went to his room and even the duvet, the sheets and the pillows were gone. They left a bare mattress, empty drawers, no clothes, not a single sock. They even took Sherlock's big periodic table that was hanging on his room. While looking at the empty room, Jane wondered how she didn't notice they had practically half emptied the entire flat.

The only thing they left were Sherlock's books and dictionaries.

It was true then. Sherlock was no longer living with her.

Jane spent the rest of that day on her bed, with her bag with her clothes and her baby's ready in case she may get into labour. The baby was due in two more weeks, but she felt she could have this baby right now. She cried, she slept. She woke up again and when she realised she was alone, she cried again and fell asleep of pure exhaustion again.

She had lived alone before. It shouldn't feel like this. She had lived alone before, and in worst places, and she never cried. This time, it hurt so much because his friend had left her. And Sherlock hadn't even come to take his things himself. Sherlock wasn't replying her texts, or her calls, he was not talking to her and he hadn't even told her, face to face, that he was leaving forever.

Was it because she didn't want to marry him? Was it because she still wasn't sure about him adopting her baby? Jane wondered what she could have possibly done wrong to make Sherlock leave like this. Baker Street was Sherlock's place – his place. And he had looked at it before her, he had invited her to live with him. If something was bothering him, annoying him, he should have told her himself, Jane thought, and she should have been the one leaving, not him. Jane preferred having Sherlock asking her to leave rather than him leaving.

But if Sherlock left because she didn't want to marry him, it was unfair. She had all the right to doubt, to hesitate and say no. What Sherlock was asking her was too serious and Sherlock took marriage as a mere process, as a mere contract that both should get into in order to be able to use each other's credit cards, discharge each other from hospitals and so on. Marriage was not what Sherlock said it was for him. Marriage was a serious thing, something Jane even took a long time to consider when her late husband, Matthew Morstan proposed. Even when he proposed to her because he loved her, Jane had her doubts.

It has to be said that neither of them knew what marriage was, for Jane marriage was an institution to be respected; a union with someone that was not only marked by means of a ring, or by means of signing papers in front of a registrar. It was a commitment for life. For one reason or another, the countless boyfriends from the past never fulfilled her needs. And it wasn't about physical needs. No boyfriend from her past fulfilled her needs for adrenaline and passion as Sherlock Holmes did.

What Sherlock was asking her was to be his. What the detective wanted was to be her owner. Sherlock wanted the two of them to live a fantasy – because that was exactly what it was. A marriage between friends? They weren't even in love!

Platonic love? Sherlock was right when he said that every single boyfriend she had had dumped her because of him. Every single one of them felt they were competing against Sherlock Holmes. And her relationship with Matthew was a total success because, despite of she liked him because she felt attracted to trouble, Sherlock was 'dead' and he was not there to ruin her dates.

And Sherlock was right too when he said she loved him far too much to always look after him. She not only made sure he ate, but that he also slept, had clean clothes, remembered he had to visit a doctor every once in a while and have a check up. Those were normal things. But not so many friends are always looking after their friends. Not in the same way Jane had always done.

It was so damn true. She was asking him out when they went to Angelo's for the first time, but he was married to his work, or that's what he said, and she was just a girl who had returned from the Middle East, who had a terrible limp, who needed a flatshare and had no one in the world.

How could she even let Sherlock adopt her baby? What if she let him? What if they continued living together and raising her daughter together? If he was to be known as her father, legally speaking, her baby would have Sherlock's name and she would call him 'daddy'. Sherlock would be her father and then what about Matthew? No one knew what his real name was, so what was she meant to tell her child? Could she keep Matthew as a secret forever? Her child had the right to know who her father is... and Matthew, despite of all the lies he said, he died to keep her and their baby safe. Matthew, or whatever his name was, was the biological father and he had rights. He was dead, but Jane knew it wouldn't be fair for him.

Again, Sherlock was right when he said that she was worried. Jane was just days from having her child and she didn't know if she could play both mum and dad. She knew she had to be strong, but how could she tell whether she could be strong enough and be enough for her baby?

Jane spent two weeks in bed thinking about this during the night, when the insomnia took the best of her. She slept during the day, when the sun was up on the sky and she realised she had spent the whole night up, thinking.

During those two weeks Mrs Hudson helped her with everything she needed. She agreed it was a pity Sherlock had moved out, but she was always trying to cheer her up, telling Jane she needed to focus on her baby and think of possible names.

Some afternoons Mrs Hudson would bring a friend or two and the old ladies sat on the sofa and knitted for hours. They told Jane old stories about the neighbourhood, about their childhoods, about the other members of the knitting club, about Mrs Abbott and her granddaughter, a smart teenage girl who was a very talented swimmer. Those afternoons made Jane forget everything about Sherlock, about both of his proposals and about the fact he was no longer living with her.

The days passed, and suddenly three weeks later she was sitting alone in the living room and everything was turned off, even the telly and the lights, the radio and the curtains were closed when she realised the due date had passed. Her baby should have been born a week ago.

Jane Watson was a doctor. She knew this was week number forty-one and if her baby wasn't born before the forty-two she was in trouble. She wanted the pregnancy to be over, really. She felt like a planet, she could no longer see her own feet when standing, she felt uncomfortable, she couldn't sleep, she couldn't walk, she couldn't even have a proper bath and at the top of the list, she still didn't think of a name.

"Let's see... when we didn't know if you were a girl or a boy," Jane said to her belly, going through the pages of one of the two books about baby names Mrs Hudson had bought for her. "I liked Hamish for a boy, and your father liked Sophia."

"It's a beautiful name."

She looked up as soon as she heard his voice.

"I tried to ring the bell, but I saw the curtains were close... I thought you were sleeping."

"I... I thought you didn't want to see me."

"Ah," Sherlock sat on his old chair, across his friend and took the book off her hands. "Sophia is a good name."

"Why you left?"

He looked at her. "I needed to test my theory."

"What?"

"Your doubts about my proposal made me question my own intentions towards you. While I still wish to adopt your child, I came to the conclusion that by marrying you, things between you and me might become problematic."

Jane remained silent.

"I considered that our cohabitation is what led me to believe that without your constant presence around me I wouldn't be able to go on living," She still remained silent. "While Mycroft's maid prepares reasonable good food and tea, I still feel something is missing from my daily routine and ultimately, my life. Your absence made my first hypothesis false. Our cohabitation didn't mislead me –"

"Sherlock."

"I must admit I ruined your dates on purpose; for mine and your own benefit. I could not share you with those you shared romantic feelings with. Remember the boring teacher? –"

"Sherlock."

"Jane, I have feelings for you that are impossible for me to explain from an empiric or scientific perspective. I don't have any romantic feelings for you, nor could I ever profess any sort of material attractions towards your body for sexual pleasure or reproduction –"

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, I know. You don't need sex to function as a human being. If you don't, then we can get married! Don't you see? It's the most logical thing to do –"

"If I say yes will you shut up?"

"Would you marry me?"

"Yes!" Jane groaned and then the detective looked down. Her jeans were stained and there was a large stain on the carpet. "Now please call an ambulance!"

Sherlock stood still.

"Sherlock, she's coming now."

He watched her face: she was as red as a tomato, she was breathing heavily and she had both hands pressed against her swollen stomach. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"How sure you think you are? Eighty percent sure? Ninety?"

"One hundred and ten percent sure she's coming _now_."

Right now.

And he didn't know what to do.

"Oh, fuck –" Jane groaned. "You've gone into shock."

"I'm not in shock!"

"Call the fucking ambulance!"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and called an ambulance.

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock shouted when he took Jane downstairs to wait for the ambulance. "Jane needs your morphine!"

"She doesn't have any," Jane said, breathing. "God, I'm gonna need something stronger than that."

"What do I do?"

"You're going to hold my hand all the way through and don't you dare leaving me alone, Sherlock Holmes."

As once Sherlock said, when he discharged himself from hospital and when both, he and Jane, confronted Matthew Morstan, the ambulance took 8 minutes to arrive. And even though he knew a lot about a lot of things, he forgot the baby's bag.

"I forgot the bag!" Sherlock said once they were in the ambulance and on their way to the hospital. "Turn around and drive back –"

Jane grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt and pulled him close. "I'm having this child now and I _need_ an epidural – stop talking about the fucking bag and aggghhhh!"

The detective thought the baby was coming now and that Jane was giving birth in an ambulance somewhere in London and not in a hospital with clean sheets and all those things he had read about.

Before he ever proposed and then left, they had talked about this situation countless times. As Jane could no longer walk more than the steps needed to go from her room to the living room and to the bathroom, they decided Sherlock was the one in charge of the bag with her clothes and the baby's. The detective had prepared everything: he knew what number he had to dial, what he had to say and what he had to do once the baby was coming. But it was too early!

When everything seemed to be well, the doctors said she was not ready yet and that they'd have to wait. Jane was crying, begging for an epidural because the pain was far too much to endure. The nurse brought her a special gown for her to wear and instructed Sherlock not let her push yet, and to help her to breathe.

"Help me with the gown." Jane sniffed.

Sherlock helped her to sit on the bed. "Do I have to?"

"Yes! I can't even move. Now, help me with my socks!" She looked at him. "Sorry – sorry. I'm... this fucking hurts, Sherlock, you have no idea. God, I'm not having any more children after this one."

"You won't?" The detective asked, taking her socks off and placing them over a chair.

"I don't have anyone to have children with." She sniffed a bit.

He glared at her.

"What?"

"We could have one. Someday."

She groaned. "You don't even do sex, Sherlock."

"I said I'd do it with you."

"You don't like it."

"You said marriages are all about giving and taking."

"I'm certainly not having any more children. That's for sure. It hurts far too much."

Jane groaned as Sherlock helped her with her jumper. She took off her shirt and was about to take off her bra when Sherlock turned away and pretended he was too occupied with a hideous advert about STD's hanging on the wall. "You don't need to look away, you know. Nothing you haven't seen before."

"I never saw you naked."

"I'm not walking naked around you like Irene bloody Adler." Jane joked. "I'll breastfeed my baby for a long time, so you'd better get used to it."

Once she was done, she put on Sherlock's long coat and a pair of nice slippers provided by the hospital and hooked her arms with his. They went for a walk all around the maternity ward of the hospital.

They walked in comfortable silence, taking slow steps, and looking at the people around them. There were grandparents waiting to see their grandchildren for the first time, fathers waiting to be reunited with their wives, children waiting for their parents to show them their new brothers or sisters.

"You were right."

"I'm always right," Sherlock said absent-mindedly. "About what specifically?"

"I was asking you out when we went to Angelo's, you know, the first time?" Jane said, out of the blue.

"Waiting for the cabbie to show up," Sherlock completed. "Yes, I knew it."

"You said you were married to your work."

"I was."

She smiled.

They came across a crying man sitting on the floor, his back glued to the wall and both hands covering his face. The tears rolled from under his palms. There was a doctor asking him to stand up, telling him everything was going to be okay.

"His wife died." Sherlock deduced. "Premature child. Complicated childbirth."

"Christ."

"Are you still in pain?"

"Yeah," Jane's grip on his arm was tight.

Sherlock nodded. "If the doctors ask you, you'll say I'm your husband. If they ask for any papers, you'll say we've just got married."

"Why?"

"So they let me be with you during the birth."

"You'll be with me?"

"Of course. We'd already agreed on it."

"When did that happen?"

"When we started taking those antenatal lessons, don't you remember?"

"No."

"It doesn't matter."

Jane stopped walking. "Now I think it's time."

Jane couldn't walk any more. Sherlock called a nurse, a wheelchair was brought, in the room Jane was examined and her obstetrician said she was ready. And when asked if he wanted to see his child coming to the world (because they, without saying anything, were taken for a married couple) Sherlock hadn't had the chance to say anything. Jane wouldn't let go of his hand and Sherlock was sure there was one or maybe two muscles bruised. Sherlock had read about giving birth and the whole process, so he knew his friend was going through a lot of pain.

He had promised he would look after her and her baby so the least he could do was to hold her hand, help her to breathe, and watch. Sherlock was quickly given a special gown doctors wore and was told to stay next to Jane, hold her hand and not to faint.

"Okay Mrs Holmes, when you feel like pushing, push!"

She was sweating, holding Sherlock's hand and cursing using every single word in the English language that could express the pain she was enduring.

"Breathe –"

"It's Dr. Watson and it hurts!" Sherlock was practically blowing air to Jane's face without even knowing. "Stop it!" Jane almost shouted. "Fuck!"

"Don't be rude!"

"You stop blowing air to my face!"

"You said you were hot!" Jane tightened her grip on Sherlock's hand. "Ouch, my hand!"

"You had it coming!"

"Can you stop it!" A nurse scolded them both. "You, Mrs Holmes, push. You, Mr Holmes, stop blowing air to your wife's face!"

"The head's out!" said the doctor. "You're doing very well!"

"What?" said Jane and Sherlock in unison. "But I didn't push."

"Can I watch?"

"I have two doctors and three nurses looking at my vagina. Go, help yourself."

Sherlock didn't let go of her hand but moved from her side and looked. Then, he returned to his original place and said nothing.

"What? Not good?"

Sherlock said nothing.

And then, they both hear her crying.

The doctor laughed, taking the baby in his hands high so Jane and Sherlock could see her. "My, eager to meet mummy and daddy, huh? Congratulations Mr and Mrs Holmes. You've got a very healthy girl!"

Jane smiled, relieved. "God."

"Daddy, want to cut the cord?" asked a nurse.

The detective took the scissors and cut the cord. "Can I keep it?"

"Ah, you're into the steam cells too?"

"Experiments."

Jane patted Sherlock's arm. "He's joking, don't mind him."

The nurse handed Jane her baby, who was still crying. "Hello, baby." She sighed and tears, heavy tears rolled down her face. "I'm mummy."

"She's pink."

"She's beautiful."

"She looks like you."

Jane leaned against Sherlock's chest and cried for some time. Lots of images came to her mind, and she remembered the moment Sherlock told her and her then husband Matthew Morstan that she was pregnant. They'd just got married and were about to dance when she felt happy. She had not only got married to the man she loved, but she was also pregnant.

Without warning, he pressed a kiss to her lips. A small gesture he liked and both silently agreed was what suited them both. Kisses were what made them feel close. They were what made Jane feel something different, something she liked. Kisses were everything Sherlock could give her and everything he liked.

Sherlock was asked to wait outside while the baby was taken to neo-natology to be examined. A nurse told him Jane was soon going to her room and that he could wait for her there.

Outside, he met Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade. The DI had flowers in his hands. As soon as Sherlock met their eyes, he realised he was still wearing that doctor's gown and that it was all stained with Jane's tears.

"Congratulations are in order I suppose." Mycroft said, his eyes not leaving his brother's.

Greg hugged him (but Sherlock did not return the hug).

"How's she? Is the baby okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied to his landlady. "both are okay."

Mrs Hudson looked into Sherlock's eyes and cried a bit. "Oh, Sherlock."

A nurse said they could go and see Jane and that she was already with her baby.

The last to enter the room was Sherlock. Both Greg and Mrs Hudson congratulated Jane, the DI of the NSY gave her his flowers and Mycroft merely articulated some polite words. The landlady brought the forgotten bag with Jane and the baby's clothes and said she could not wait for them to return to Baker Street with the baby.

"What's her name?" Greg asked.

Jane smiled, her baby in her arms. "We still have to think about it."

At that 'we', the landlady and the DI exchanged looks. "We'd better go," Mrs Hudson said, kissing Jane's forehead and smiling to the baby. "You need a moment alone. Congratulations, Sherlock."

Greg and Mrs Hudson left, but Mycroft stayed. He sent some texts and smiled to his little brother. "Mummy and father send their regards. Needless to say, they are quite angry with you, dear brother."

"Can't think of a reason."

"You told Mycroft?"

"What?"

"That you accepted marrying my brother?" Mycroft asked, smiling. "No, he didn't. Not difficult to see it, though. Clearly obvious."

Jane smiled. "So now that we're going to be family..."

"Yes."

"I have to ask you to leave," Jane smiled. "I'm too tired and I still need to feed my baby."

"Don't worry, Jane. You shall receive the visit of my parents – your future parent's in law – in a couple of days."

"No, we shan't." Sherlock commented, taking a seat next to Jane's bed.

Jane glared at him and then turned to his future brother-in-law. "That will be lovely, I'm sure."

"Congratulations," Mycroft said to Jane and turned to his brother. "Congratulations, Sherlock. Don't fuck it up this time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do shut up."

When they were left alone, Jane yawned widely and rubbed her eyes. "Here, hold her for a bit." The detective looked hesitant at first. "Oh, come on. She won't bite you."

"I know!"

There was a pink bundle in his arms. Sherlock looked down at the strange, little, pink creature in his arms for a long time until he realised he was holding Jane's baby. His eyes immediately focused on the pink bracelet around her tiny wrist with "Watson-Holmes" written on it.

She had a mop of blonde, almost white hair and it was soft to his touch. Her eyebrows were faint, and her skin was very pink. For a moment he feared this might not be normal but soon Jane, sensing his doubts maybe, explained him it was normal. The baby's eyes were closed and he wanted to know if they were blue like Jane's or green like Morstan's.

He instinctively moved a hand close to her little ones and she curled her little, tiny fingers around his.

"She's brilliant!"

Jane smiled. "I'll go and get changed. This gown stinks. You think you can manage for some minutes?"

"Of course."

Sherlock sat on a chair with the baby in his arms - his baby. He listened to her soft breathing while she slept in his arms and inhaled her scent, which was like no scent he had felt before. It was sweet and so different, almost pleasant. He looked at her and wondered how this little baby in his arms had been inside Jane all this time, when he had felt her kicking and moving.

The detective wondered what does it feel like to be a parent. Sherlock wondered what Jane felt, having her own child, hers and her husband's, who was dead. He had promised Morstan he was going to take care of Jane and her baby. So he was going to do it. Now he was going to be her husband and the father of that baby, legally speaking and soon in practice too and, from that place, he was going to do anything within his power to protect them.

"Getting along well?"

Jane returned from the bathroom wearing a pink gown she had brought some weeks before. She sat on her bed and sighed tiredly. "I can't believe she's finally here."

Sherlock gave the baby back to Jane and, when he did it, he felt empty. He didn't want to let go of that baby who didn't have a name yet. Sherlock wanted to hold her a bit more.

While waiting for Jane to change her clothes, he imagined himself having a child and it felt so odd, so un-Sherlock. He knew he would never have his own children. To have one he knew he would need to find a woman, and that was out of the question. He didn't have those urges, those needs everyone seemed to have. He was happy being who he was, always on his own. Well, he was not on his own anymore, because he had Jane. But having a baby, another baby, his own baby maybe, was out of the question.

Now he had someone to protect, someone to raise, someone to feel proud of. It was an inexplicable feeling. He couldn't even understand himself.

_"Promise me you'll take care of them."_

_"What?" Sherlock asked, scared. This was not on his plans. This shouldn't be ending like this. "Matthew –"_

_Magnussen cried for help and Morstan pulled the trigger. "Merry Christmas!" _

_Charles Augustus Magnussen's dead body hit the floor. Matthew smiled relieved as he turned to face the armed men who were ready to kill him and the helicopter. He raised his hands in surrender._

_"Man down, man down!" was all the armed men said._

_"Get away from me, Sherlock!" Matthew said, looking at Sherlock who was next to him, still standing, still not believing what had just happened. "Stay well back!"_

_Sherlock went mute. He suddenly didn't know what to say and even if he could, he could say no word._

_"Tell Jane I love her." Matthew said before being killed. "Tell her she's safe now."_

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

"Me? Yes. Why?"

Jane smiled. "I was talking to you, but you seemed to be away." Sherlock frowned. "I was asking you about names. We haven't thought of any."

"_We_?"

"Yes."

"I thought you'd want to choose the name."

"Why you thought that?"

"It's your child."

"It's yours too," Jane said, flinching a bit. "I'm giving her to you."

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked when he saw Jane breastfeeding the baby.

She nodded. "Yeah, a bit."

"She's beautiful."

"Ah," Jane smiled. "Yeah. She doesn't look like Matthew. Not a bit."

She was extremely pale and fragile. Sherlock remembered she was not like that when he visited her, or before he left baker Street to test his theory and know whether he could live without Jane and if all this thing he thought they had, and what he called 'platonic love', still existed between them. Jane was cheerful, she was complaining –again- about her sore feet, her sore back, her sore breasts and her stretching skin.

But she wasn't any more.

"You look pale."

"I'll be fine. I'm just too tired." The baby fell asleep and Jane rearranged her gown and asked Sherlock to place her on the hospital cot next to her bed. "Stay."

"Yes."

"Here."

"Visiting hours will finish in," He checked his watch. "Six minutes."

Jane smiled. "I won't bite you."

Sherlock climbed onto the bed and Jane rested her head on his chest, with his strong arm around her shoulders and his left hand taking hers. "She looks like you."

"We have to think of possible names. I didn't think of any, really." Her voice was sore, almost a faint whisper.

"I thought you had already made up your mind."

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

"Because you left."

"I needed to test my theory."

"And what is the result?"

"I can't live without you, Jane Watson."

"Neither can I," Jane confessed. "I don't actually know how I did it when I married Matthew. We barely saw each other."

Sherlock smiled a bit. "Are you completely sure?"

"No," Jane sat on the bed and looked at him. "I'm an eighty-seven percent sure, actually. But I trust you. I'll be a good wife, I promise."

The detective smiled and got off the bed. He walked to the cot and looked at the baby sleeping form. "Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

"I'm not naming my daughter Sherlock." She stood next to Sherlock and took his arm. "Matthew liked Sophia." When Sherlock turned to her, she pressed a shy peck to his lips. "I'm sorry. I'm just too hormonal."

"I liked it."

"The name or the kiss?"

"Both."


	6. Giving and taking

**AN: Thanks for reading! Apologies for my mistakes!**

* * *

**Giving and taking**

He opened his eyes immediately after the first sound. He closed them and then opened them again. The detective looked at the ceiling and then at the sleeping form next to him. It was a warm night and the woman next to him was lying on her side, away from him.

A second sound.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes open and sat on the bed. He focused on the cot placed on the corner of his room and realised Sophia was awake and, fortunately, not crying. Just awake, probably staring at the ceiling like him.

Being very, but very careful, he took the baby into his arms and decided it was for the best to take her out the room, just in case she cried and woke up Jane. On his way to the living room, Sherlock, with Sophia in one arm, collected the bottle with Jane's milk from the fridge and proceeded to heat it.

As soon as it was ready, he sat on Jane's chair, which was far better than his for this task and started feeding his daughter.

_His daughter._

Nine months ago Matthew Morstan killed Magnussen in order to also get rid of the man, but also to get rid of the things the magnate had on him and could destroy his family. Nine months later Sherlock was feeding Sophia, Jane and Morstan's daughter. But it was his now. Sherlock's.

No one could deny the fact that baby in his arms wasn't biologically his. At the same time no one could ever dare to say Sophia wasn't his because, in a way, she was his. Sophia was Sherlock's. Legally speaking, it was so true because it was written on her documents. Sherlock was Sophia's daughter. He signed the certificates, so did Jane. To the laws of the country he was Sherlock Holmes, father of Sophia Watson Holmes and husband of Jane Watson. Sophia had his nose and ears, yes, she had them. That nose and those ears were definitely Sherlock's. Her eyes, her nose, her lips, they were definitely Jane's. Without a doubt, Sophia was theirs, Jane and Sherlock's and no one could ever deny that.

"You're too quiet tonight."

Her voice startled him when he was too deep sunk into his own thoughts. Jane took the empty bottle left on the table and placed it on the sink. When she returned, she sat opposite him, on his chair, and smiled lovingly.

His eyes fell on the shinning band on her finger. That ring she was wearing was his. He gave it to her one morning some weeks after Sophia was born. Shortly after the civil ceremony she took it off and said they didn't need any rings. But some hours later she put it on again and no one said anything about it. The ring he was wearing was hers. She gave it to him that same morning and, contrary to what she did, he did wear it because it felt good, actually and he never took it off since then.

Those rings meant nothing really. But it was a visual and definite proof they were together and no one could ever deny that.

"What is it?"

"She's not crying anymore."

"Hmm?"

He finally met her eyes. "She doesn't cry at night."

"Ah, yes," Jane leaned forward and looked at his daughter, peacefully sleeping in Sherlock's arms. "Amazing, isn't it. It's good to be able to sleep eight hours non-stop."

"Hmm."

"Let's take her to the cot before she wakes up again."

Back in their room, Sherlock put Sophia on her cot and went back to bed. Jane followed him shortly and not before making herself sure the windows of the room were closed. Sophia was a mere baby and she couldn't afford to catch a cold.

When Jane joined him on the bed, she tossed to his side and looked at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're too quiet." He said nothing. She yawned. "You usually tell her about your cases."

"Don't you miss it?"

"Miss what?" She closed her eyes.

"The sex."

"No."

"You don't?"

Jane opened her eyes. "No," She shrugged. "Why?"

Jane knew what Sherlock was talking about. They have been sharing a bed practically since Sophia was born. It all started when Jane fell asleep on the table while having breakfast and breastfeeding Sophia. Sherlock said she and Sophia should, to put it in a way, move in with him downstairs. That is to say, take not only Sophia's cot downstairs to his room, but also Jane should sleep with him, so in the case Sophia woke up in the middle of the night, he could nurse her and Jane could sleep more.

Sherlock said it was for practical reasons and the first night they shared the same bed, it proved him right. That first night Sophia only needed a change and Sherlock woke up and nursed her quite fast – so fast that Jane never felt her baby crying and she managed to sleep more than eight hours non-stop.

But, the night after, Jane found herself being trapped in Sherlock's limbs. His longs arms held her tightly against him. The closeness of their bodies provoked nothing but an exchange of feverish kisses, product, not only of the closeness of their bodies, but also of the hormones of the recent mother and the need of data and experimentation of the detective now father. The thing almost, almost, got further. They stopped because Jane had just given birth, because Sophia was sleeping in the same room and because Sherlock said he needed time.

The problem wasn't the act itself. The problem was that, not long ago, they said neither of them could profess such physical need towards the other. And yet, they held hands sometimes, they kissed sometimes, thought they were chaste, almost shy kisses.

Quite weird, actually. Time passed and days became weeks, weeks became months and months later, it happened again.

Jane said they shouldn't. Sherlock said he wanted it. She replied he didn't know what he was asking of her. The detective said it was beneficial to both parties involved, and that is to say, to the two of them. The doctor repeated the same – he didn't know what he was asking of her. Sherlock said he had done research and he knew what he had to do. Jane answered in a very patient way that she knew that he knew what he had to do, but that she didn't want him to do things he didn't want to. Sherlock said he wanted it. Jane replied he didn't know what he wanted and finally, the argument ended with Sherlock saying he knew what he wanted; he just wanted to know what was like.

At that, Jane asked him to leave and sleep on the sofa.

The following morning they talked about it. Jane said she didn't need sex, and she was fine the way they were, that she didn't want him to do things he didn't want to or that he wasn't prepared for. She argued and defended her ideas: they could never have sex, and not because one of them (Jane) didn't want to but because it wasn't going to work. _Yes, you're a very attractive man and I admit I asked you out once. But that doesn't mean that now we're married and sharing a bed we should do it just because._

Sherlock had strong arguments. One, marriages were about giving and taking, so, now, he was giving something away, something quite important to him and Jane should take it. Two, he wanted to do it and three, he had done tons of research and that she shouldn't be worried because, after all that research and study, he could assure her he could be quite a good lover.

It wasn't a question whether he was going to be a good lover or not, or if he had done research or not, or if he knew what goes where, or if this was one of those 'giving and taking' things within their marriage.

The problem here was that neither of them really wanted to have sex. And it was time they really admitted it. It took Jane some time to finally get Sherlock to say it loud. To finally admit it and not let himself feel embarrassed. But he finally admitted it: Sherlock said he couldn't profess any material attraction towards her body, for either pleasure or reproduction. Never before, not now and maybe never in the future. _There is nothing wrong with your body_. He just didn't feel that need, that urge to touch her and make her his. And before the question arose, Sherlock clarified what he knew Jane still doubted: he wasn't gay. He wasn't heterosexual. He just was asexual.

Looking into his eyes, Jane told him the truth: that she didn't want and that probably she would never want to have sex again. She was completely dedicated to her daughter and the last thing she could think of was sex_. Don't think I'll leave you one day just because you can't have sex with me. I won't do it, Sherlock_. If he was okay with kissing, then, so was she. If he was okay with cuddling, then, so was she. And if he was okay with her sleeping next to him every night, then, so was she.

"Look, Sherlock, I've told you, okay? My breasts hurt right now and I have no libido really."

"That doesn't mean you don't miss it."

"You're right," she said, snuggling close to him. "But I don't, really."

He remained silent for a moment. "Tell me when you do."

"I will."

"_Jane_."

"I will. I promise."

After a moment of silence, when Sherlock thought Jane had already fallen asleep, she pressed a kiss to his jaw and buried her face into his neck. "You're rather stupid, you know."

"Hmm. You too."

"But you love this stupid."

"Oh, yes."


	7. Secrets

**AN: Thanks for reading and apologies for any mistakes.**

* * *

**Secrets**

"We should get one."

"Hmm?"

"Another baby," Sherlock said while he leaned forward on his chair. His eyes had been following the crawling baby for around an hour. He found it fascinating to see his daughter crawling with her toys, the few ones she had and her stuffed animals, horrible presents from his parents, taking them from one corner of the living room to the other. "We should get another one for Sophia to interact with."

"I said I wasn't having any more babies and I meant it."

Sophia started crawling the moment Sherlock became more and more fascinated with children and said, more or less twice or three times a day they should have, somehow, another child for Sophia to interact with.

"But look at her!"

She looked at her daughter. "She's crawling."

"Indeed."

Jane watched Sophia crawling to Sherlock's feet. "Just wait till she starts teething."

Three weeks later, Sophia wouldn't stop crying. It didn't matter what they did, she wouldn't stop crying. No matter what Sherlock tried, Sophia wouldn't stop crying. No matter what Jane tried to tell her, what games she tried to play with her daughter, Sophia wouldn't stop crying. Little bribes, such as a toy, the promise of a game, a stroll around the park, nothing helped.

Sophia wouldn't stop crying.

"She's teething."

"When will it stop?"

Sophia was calmly sleeping on her cot and Jane predicted her baby was going to sleep the whole night after spending the whole day crying. "It'll pass. The first days are the worst. She'll get used to the pain."

"She's in pain?"

"Yes. It's a painful and traumatic phase for babies. It'll pass, though. Tomorrow first thing in the morning I need you to go and buy some formula."

"Why?"

"I won't breastfeed her now that she's teething."

Sherlock frowned. "We'll give her formula now?"

"Yes." He glared at her. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Books suggest breast milk is the best."

She nodded and opened the fridge, where she found some take away food. "True. But I won't have my nipples bitten." He glared at her again. "She's nine months old and she's already eating solid food. She's gonna be okay with some formula."

The crawling, the teething and new milestones in the life of Sophia, such as babbling incoherent sounds, made Matthew Morstan's death, now after a year, go without anyone noticing. But that would make of this narrator someone a bit unreliable when it comes to facts.

It was Jane's second Christmas at the Holmes' and none said anything. Mummy and Mr Holmes were quite occupied with the little baby who joined their family. Mycroft and his father were too occupied discussing politics. Sherlock took Billy to his parents' and he was too occupied training his disciple. Jane was too occupied looking after Sophia, making herself sure she was safely crawling around the Holmes' living room and playing with her toys. Jane, now Sherlock's wife, also helped Mrs Holmes with the food and the countless puddings she wanted to prepare.

The first time Mummy met Sophia and was told her son had just got married to Jane Watson, she looked at the baby for long seconds and then back to her parents, Jane and Sherlock. Even though Sherlock clarified before they asked him that he had adopted Sophia, Mummy doubted. She was a clever woman and she believed in her own son and his friend, now his wife. But something was wrong. Why was it that this baby, who was adopted, looked a bit like her son? Was it really true that Sherlock had adopted that fatherless creature as he said he did?

Mummy met Jane Watson only one time and it was that Christmas day when Sherlock brought her, along with her handsome husband - a doctor called Morstan and a boy Sherlock was training and whose name was Billy. Mummy asked her husband to serve Jane the special punch she had prepared for her, different from the others since it had no alcohol. Her son's pregnant friend was, to Mummy, a very beautiful woman she wished was her son's wife. But hope was already lost and she thought Sherlock and Mickey would never give them grandchildren.

However, Mummy saw the way Sherlock looked at Jane. During lunch Jane addressed to her husband not meeting his eyes. But she met Sherlock's when they talked. Something was wrong and later, when they woke up only to find Billy watching telly, they soon had police officers knocking at her door and saying they needed to talk to Jane Morstan née Watson and tell her her husband was dead.

It didn't surprise Mummy when Mycroft told her about Sherlock's new legal status. It did surprise her husband though, who said finally one of their children were married and that they had now a grandchild. Her husband took for granted Sherlock was adopting that child. But Mummy didn't. Mummy Holmes liked children and that's why she dropped out her job and her promising career as a very talented mathematician to raise her own children. But why his son wanted a baby? Why _this_ baby?

"She's lovely." Mummy said, after watching that baby crawling all around her living room. "Beautiful like her mother."

Jane smiled a bit and hid herself behind the big cup she was crawling with both hands. Behind around Mummy Holmes or her husband made Jane feel a bit uncomfortable after the things that had happened. Something in Mummy's eyes made Jane think she had not been completely accepted in the family. She felt she was someone they could not trust.

"Sherlock couldn't have chosen better."

"It's not..." Jane's eyes fell on a picture hanging on the wall where she saw a very little Sherlock wearing a funny hat and posing with a dark dog. "It's not what you think it is. It's complicated."

Mummy smiled. "You don't owe me explanations. But one thing I'll tell you: don't hurt him. Sherlock and Mycroft are all my husband and I have. I know he loves you." Jane looked at her, surprised. "He died for you once."

In the kitchen, Mummy checked all her puddings were perfect and that the table was settled before calling the men for lunch. Jane followed her. "I know."

"He loves you. He _really_ does, that boy. And I think he always did," Mummy smiled when she saw Jane's confused look. "When Mickey told me my Sherly was moving with a woman and that that woman had saved his life just hours after they met, I knew it. They way my son looks at you. Tell me dear, have you ever wondered why is that he forgets to eat, but he remembers to feed Sophia?" Jane didn't know what to say. "He never cared for anyone else but himself. Look at him now, teaching that Billy boy. Before you came he made me get childproof things for his baby."

Jane seemed to understand some of it. "I won't hurt him."

"You'd better." Mummy smiled. "Call the boys, will you."

Mycroft and his father were in a small room upstairs where books filled in bookcases covering every wall and piles of books were on the floor. Outside in the garden Jane found Sherlock and Billy smoking.

"Lunch's ready."

Billy took a last drag and threw the little remains of a cigarette. He looked at her. "Talkin' to the old missus?"

"Learnt lots, didn't you?"

Billy got into the house, leaving Jane and Sherlock alone. The detective took a long drag and exhaled the smoke. He threw the cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. "Whatever my mother said, delete it."

"She's truly lovely."

"She insists we stay for New Year's."

"Looking forward to it." Jane took the packet of cigarettes from off Sherlock's coat pocket. "Sophia really likes them and country air won't hurt her. You said you'd quit."

Sherlock seemed to consider the idea for a moment. "What did she say?"

"Made me promise I won't hurt you." Sherlock said nothing and looked at the cigarette on the floor. "Come on, lunch's ready."

She hooked her arm with his and both headed to the house. They stopped at the door. Jane was about to open the door when Sherlock kissed her. And then, before they broke the kiss, Mummy opened the door.

"Ah, there you are. Jane, I asked you to tell my boy lunch's ready, not to stick your tongue down his throat. We're all waiting for you."

Sherlock went red. "MOTHER!"

"_Mummy_," she corrected her son. "Now, I've prepared your favourite."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had been, for nine months or so, Jane Watson's husband. And though she still was Watson and not Holmes because she decided not to use his name, he still was her husband because it was written on legal documents and because both had also been wearing matching rings. But, for nine months, they had been friends.

Married friends.

The thing is, Sherlock had always helped Jane as a friend would. Sherlock helped Jane with Sophia, he sometimes fed her, changed nappies, helped her with the baths. Sherlock did everything a friend would do.

They shared a bed, they kissed occasionally and held hands sometimes. Sharing a bed, kissing and cuddling weren't activities reserved only for married people. But they were friends and they were in love with each other in a very particular way. Sherlock had been, so far, a very good friend. He supported Jane in everything she wanted to accomplish. They had a spiritual connection. They trusted each other.

But Sherlock, as a husband and friend of Jane Watson, had never done what he was to do that night. That night when, a year ago, he watched Matthew Morstan killing Magnussen and, consequently, being killed for it.

Sophia was sleeping calmly in her spare cot when Jane and Sherlock, finally alone in what used to be Sherlock's room, talked about it.

"I don't want to forgive him." Jane said. There were no tears in her eyes. But she looked angry. "I _can't_."

"Why?"

"If one day you woke up and from all of the sudden someone tells you my name's not Jane Watson, that I'm not a doctor but a top killer trained by the CIA who had been lying to you all the time wouldn't you be angry at me?"

The anger inside her was growing and Sherlock could see it through her eyes. He had never seen Jane this angry and she was probably angrier than the night he appeared and revealed not only to her but the whole world that Sherlock Holmes was not dead but soundly alive.

"I don't understand why you're angry at the man who died to keep you and your daughter safe." He soon felt Jane's furious glare on her.

"I'm sick of it! He _only_ died to keep my baby safe, but that doesn't make him an hero!" Jane exploded.

And then, she opened up her palm and revealed a memory stick.

"You made a copy." Sherlock almost whispered and took the memory stick. Then, he looked at his wife. "You know what he did."

"_Who_ he was." Jane corrected him.

And then Sherlock understood. It had been there all the time, written on Matthew's face the night Jane discovered he had been the one who shot Sherlock.

_"You were very slow."_

_"How good a shot are you?"_

_Matthew pulled out his gun from inside his coat and smiled to himself. "How badly do you want to find out?"_

_"If I die here," said Sherlock over the phone. "my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even the Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that."_

_Matthew nodded. Yes. Of course. If he killed Sherlock, there was no way he could possibly escape the police and their questions. He was the husband of Sherlock Holmes' best friend. The whole nation knew it. Jane had been on the papers. Everyone with a some brains could perfectly work it out._

_Or maybe not._

_"I want to know how good you are," Sherlock continued over the phone. "Go on. Show me. The doctor's husband must be a little bit bored by now."_

_Matthew found some coins inside the pocket of his jeans. He flicked the coin into the air, high enough to raise the gun, extend his long arm and fire. An easy shot used long time ago to impress his superiors and his mates. If Sherlock needed more proofs, Matthew knew he could easily give him another show.  
_

_He looked at the shadow sitting on a chair at the end of the narrow corridor. This was his moment. He had just showed Sherlock Holmes his true colours and he had also showed him what he was capable of doing._

_But Sherlock Holmes was not sitting at the end of the corridor. Sherlock Holmes had just passed the front door and he had already turned the phone off. _

_"May I see?"_

_"It's a dummy." He laughed. "I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick." Using one foot, he sent it to Sherlock and walked a few steps closer to him.  
_

_Sherlock knelt and took the coin from off the floor. "And yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot. Enough to hospitalise me, not enough to kill me. That wasn't a miss." Matthew smiled. "That was surgery."  
_

_He nodded._

_"I'll take the case."_

_"What case?"_

_"Yours. Why didn't you come to me in the first place?"_

_"Because Jane can't ever know that I lied to her. It would break her and I would lose her forever and, Sherlock, I will never let that happen."_

_Sherlock started to walk to where he came from. It was time to reveal some things._

_"Please," Matthew said and Sherlock turned to him. "Understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening."_

_"Sorry."_

_When Sherlock turned the lights on, Matthew realised what was happening and he finally saw who was and had been sitting at the end of the corridor, who had seen him firing a coin in the air, and saying all those things he said._

_It was Jane. _

_"Not that obvious a trick."_

"He die to keep my baby safe, but not me. He got himself killed because he couldn't have never lived with me knowing the truth about him."

Still, Sherlock couldn't understand why Jane was so angry.

"See for yourself. Then you'll agree with me when I say that Sophia should never know about him."

"We can't lie to her."

"We _have to_. Don't you see, Sherlock? He wasn't just a killer. He didn't kill bad men... he killed entire families. _Families_, Sherlock. He killed women like me and children like Sophia. And not to contribute to world peace, precisely."

Sherlock went pale.

"She'll grow up knowing we are her parents... knowing that _you_ are her father. If she ever asks, we'll tell her we were friends and that we fell in love, she was born, we married. Matthew Morstan never existed."

The detective said nothing. He had to admit that's exactly what he wanted the moment he told Jane he wished to adopt her baby. Sherlock had only managed to scratch the surface of what Matthew Morstan had really done and who he had really been. Some time later he decided they could not keep the truth from Sophia. Maybe now that she was a mere baby, an infant, yes, surely. But he knew that one day she'll grow, she'll want to know about them, about Jane and himself, how they fell in love and all that stuff and Sherlock wasn't sure of it. Sherlock knew Sophia had rights and one of them was to know the truth, who her real father was.

But if what Jane said was true, and of course it was because she would never lie to him, then they couldn't tell Sophia about him.

And he wanted all those things Jane was offering: Sherlock wanted to be Sophia's father. The only one. He was her father, but only because she had his name, because he looked after her and because he really loved her. Now Jane was fully giving her baby to him. Sophia could be completely his if he accepted Jane's proposal.

Both could be only his.

"Sherlock please, if you love me as you say you do, please, don't ever tell Sophia about him. I beg you."

"I promise." She hugged him tightly and pressed a kiss to his lips.

They agreed they will never, ever, tell Sophia about him, about Matthew Morstan. It was going to be their secret. Both were taking that secret to their graves. Sophia was going to grow up knowing both were her only parents. Sophia was never going to find those pictures that showed Jane Watson marrying a doctor and trained killer. The only photo Sophia was ever going to see was the photo taken by Mrs Hudson the day Jane and Sherlock married and nothing else.

But in years to come they will realise things do not always are like we originally wanted them to be.

"Do what you like with it. It'll be better if you destroy it." Jane said after along moment, when she realised Sherlock was keeping the memory stick. "But never let Sophia see what's in it."

* * *

Sherlock turned off his computer and looked at the memory stick in his hands. Matthew Morstan never existed. Alexander was his _real_ name. CIA trained killer. American. Trained in languages, codes, encrypted technology, and accents. It explained how he knew about Jane going missing, how he managed to memorise the wedding list, the placing of the guests and his accurate English accent.

But there was more.

He did go to med school and he was a doctor. But not any doctor. He performed and ran experiments for the intelligence cells he'd worked for in his late twenties. He was not any doctor and he was not any trained agent. He belonged to the first group of men to be trained with real targets. Jane's husband had been a killer. A true killer. They thought he had killed people to maintain the world peace, but on the contrary, whom he knew as Matthew Morstan had actually killed entire families.

Now he understood.

_"Jane can't ever know that I lied to her. It would break her and I would lose her forever and, Sherlock, I will never let that happen. Please, understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening."_

The detective watched Jane feeding Sophia her breakfast and smiled when he heard Sophia giggling after some silly face Jane pulled for her. But soon that smile vanished from his face when he realised why Jane was angry, why she could never forgive who had been her husband and why they should never tell Sophia about him.

"Want daddy? Of course you want daddy," Jane said to his daughter while placing her in Sherlock's arms. "Can you hold her for a bit so I pack our things?"

"Of course."

Jane's eyes fell on the computer and the memory stick resting on the table. "You saw it."

"Yes."

"Do I still have your word?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"If I had known... I wouldn't have let him near you."

"I hate him and I hate myself for being so... blind." Jane confessed. "But he gave me Sophia. I love my daughter and I wouldn't change her for anything in the world."

Nothing else was said. Jane went to their room to pack their things leaving Sherlock and Sophia alone.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Looking into Sophia's blue eyes, Sherlock wondered if he could, in the days, years to come, fulfil that place Matthew Morstan left. The detective wondered if he would be able to be the father Sophia deserved. He already was, but only because it was written on documents. He was a father in practice because he stayed up until Sophia fell asleep, he fed her when her mother couldn't, he washed her and he played with her too. Sherlock loved that tiny being in his arms. He had done and was still doing things fathers usually do. And he wanted to do those things and more in the years to come: teach Sophia, tell her what's good and what's not, help her to find her own way in the world.

He also wished he could fulfil that place Morstan left and make Jane happy.

The detective cuddled the small baby in his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of Sophia's head when his father entered the living room.

"Ah, there you are. Why leaving so soon?" His father sat across him. "Jane tells me you want to spend your birthday in London."

"Precisely."

Mr Holmes smiled at the sight of that lovely, beautiful baby girl in his son's arms. Sherlock said nothing really. He blushed but he didn't meet his father's eyes. "Jane's a good girl. And those appear once in your life. Take care of her."

"I will."

Once back in London, once Sophia was peacefully sleeping in her cot, once it was already dark and cold, Sherlock told Jane about his father's words.

"He said you're a good girl I ought to take care of."

Jane smiled. "Your parents are lovely, Sherlock."

"They like you."

"Do they?"

"Hmm. Mummy approved of you."

"Good."

"I take back what I said before."

"You said a lot of things today."

"Not today. Some weeks ago."

"And what is it?"

"I don't want more children."

She chuckled.

They said nothing more about it.


	8. Radical notion

**AN: Apologies for any mistakes. Thanks for reading and please, review!**

* * *

**Radical notion**

The five year old child knew this was a lot not good. Mummy and daddy (especially daddy) had already warned, not only her, but nanny Hudson that soap operas were not to be seen by children and that it could cause her brain damage. But Sophia, and nanny, couldn't help it. Today was the last episode and Sophia and nanny needed to know whether the girl and the boy lived happily ever after.

The child was sitting on a nice, comfy sofa and nanny was pressing a tissue to her eyes when the girl and the boy married. They kissed, held hands and keep saying 'I love you' to each other. This made Sophia think about her parents: she had never seen them kissing or holding hands or saying 'I love you' to each other.

She wondered why mummy and daddy never held hands when they went to the supermarket, or when they went to the hospital where mummy worked at, or when they went to the Chinese down the road, or the shop next door to buy sweet things to her when she had been a good girl. Sophia had seen people holding hands and kissing, but her parents never did that and she wanted to know why.

The little girl drank more of the chocolate milk her nanny had prepared for her and waited until the couple from the soap opera kissed one last time and _'The End'_ covered nanny's TV screen.

"Thanks for the milk, nanny," Sophia adjusted her pink glasses. "Can I take some for daddy?"

"Of course, sweetie."

Sophia practically jumped all the seventeen steps that separated her house from nanny's and found daddy was still working.

The five year old girl stepped in and glanced at the pile of papers in the living room, the dummy hanging from the ceiling, which was wearing daddy's clothes, and at the big map of London all spread over the floor. Immediately Sophia knew mummy was not going to be happy when she got home: mummy always argued with daddy when the flat was dirty with things related to daddy's job.

She turned to the kitchen and found a similar disaster there. The sink was full of dirty cups and dishes, the floor was covered by old newspapers and daddy was sitting at the table and using his new microscope, a present mummy had given him for his birthday.

She sat across her daddy and waited. Long minutes passed and daddy continued working. Dragging a chair to the counter, the girl found a clean dish and placed the three cookies she took from nanny. Then she placed the plate in the middle of the table, with his chocolate milk and decided daddy should have them because she didn't remember his daddy eating any breakfast or lunch.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock didn't need to look up from her microscope. The particles he was analysing were the key to solve the case. If the suspect had been to those places he said he had, and then the case was a total mystery. He was the only suspect and –

"Why you and mum never kiss?" The five year old asked.

Silence. Sherlock finally was getting somewhere. Dust, brick, vegetation. Yes. He lied. Of course he did. He killed his wife to get his hands on the insurance and save his company from bankruptcy –

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Why you and mum never hold hands?"

He knew he had to call Lestrade and tell him all about it. The suspect wouldn't run away, not when he could save his family business. Besides, he had children and Sherlock knew what parents are capable of when they have children. He was a parent himself and he knew he would do anything for his child –

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Why you and mum never say 'I love you'?"

Now he put the evidence aside and looked at his daughter. The five year old girl wearing pink glasses was sitting across him, drinking chocolate milk and eating cookies he wished she wouldn't because he thought too much sugar was always bad for kids. Maybe he should talk to Mrs. Hudson and tell her not to give his daughter those cookies and –

"You've been watching that thing again," Sherlock said, clasping his hands together and sighing heavily. "Two cookies? That's a record."

"Jenny and Mark married and lived happily ever after!"

"Jenny and Mark?"

"Yes, daddy. Mark's evil brother tried to kill him but Jenny saved him and Mark's evil brother's in jail now. So Jenny and Mark got married at the end."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are not allowed to watch soap operas."

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you love mum?"

"Of course I love her." Sherlock said, standing up and cleaning up the table.

The little girl helped her father by taking the dirty cups to the sink so he could wash them. "But you never kiss or hold hands."

"And?"

"That's what _all_ couples do."

"Where did you get that from?" The detective asked, washing the cups and cleaning the counter.

"Mrs Turner's married ones kiss and hold hands," the girl started explaining between sips of her chocolate milk. "And in the streets people hold hands and kiss too and they do that in telly and films."

Sherlock frowned. He dried his hands and leaned on the counter. His hands were resting on his hips as he looked down at his daughter and wondered where she was getting such ideas from.

Ah. That soup opera. They should definitely have a word with Mrs Hudson. While he thought it could cause his daughter some kind of brain damage, his wife said it was all fine, that some silly story wasn't going to hurt her more than seeing him dissecting fingers or toes or putting eyeballs into the microwave.

"We don't need to hold hands or kiss like other couples do."

"Why?" Sophia asked, adjusting her glasses.

Sherlock shrugged. "We just don't. Are your glasses bothering you?"

"They slip down my nose."

The detective took the pair of pink glasses off his daughter, very softly, and examined them for a moment. "We ought to get you a new pair soon."

"Can you change these?" The little gold haired girl asked her father, while pointing at the nose pads of her pink glasses.

"We can get you a new pair."

"But I like these," Sophia pouted. "Pink is my favourite colour, daddy."

"I know." Sherlock helped his daughter with her glasses and smiled at her once she had them on again. "Your mother's coming soon. Why don't you help me cleaning? I'll let you chose supper."

"Dim sum!"

* * *

"And then Mark's evil brother tried to kill him but Jenny knew about his plans so he helped Mark and then they got Mark's evil brother into prison so at the end Jenny and mark married and then," Sophia adjusted her glasses again. "And then they married and lived happily ever after!"

Jane smiled. "Really? Wow! I can't believe I missed the end!"

"You watched that too?"

"Every now and then," Jane explained the detective. "Now, young lady, time to go to bed."

After checking her daughter had washed her teeth, Jane went with Sophia to her room upstairs. The doctor helped Sophia with her pink pyjamas and then she brushed her long golden hair.

"And what else you did, mummy?"

"I talked to other doctors. Some gave talks and some others listened."

"And how was your talk?"

"Good," Jane said while folding her daughter's clothes. "I was a bit nervous, but it turned out okay. Now tell me, what did you and your father do while I was away on that boring medical congress? Had fun?"

Sophia told Jane about the pancakes her daddy prepared for her on Friday, about the yummy cake he bought for her on Saturday and about Sherlock's latest case, in which she got to help him and uncle Lestrade too.

"What did you do?"

"Uncle Greg asked me to draw the kitchen of the victim, just in case there were clues missing."

Jane smiled. "That's good, Sophie. Now, time to sleep." She bent down and pressed a kiss to her daughter's forehead. "I missed you, you know."

"Me too."

"Good night, poppet."

Jane said there was a medical congress in Dublin and that she had been invited by one of her colleagues. Weeks after Sophia turned one, Jane got a job as a doctor at Bart's A&E unit. Sherlock had never liked it when Jane worked and that job wasn't related to him. When she married (to Morstan) and became pregnant, he had to do without her. He tried taking Molly as his assistant, but it wasn't the same. Billy was a good man and he had a good eye to find useful clues, but it wasn't the same. No one could replace Jane.

Then Sophia was born and they became a family. Money had never been a problem, and, when Sophia was born, he decided not to take any cases, for at least a while. Then, three months later after becoming a father, some cases from his website calmed his need for a good puzzle to solve and he occasionally helped Lestrade but then, when Sophia turned one, Jane said she needed to get a job.

Sherlock said money wasn't a problem, but this wasn't about money. It was about feeling needed. Jane said she didn't spend his whole twenties studying for nothing. Doctors were always needed and she was one.

Her shifts were not short but neither too long. But having a job changed Jane. It changed her in a way no one saw. Only Sherlock witnessed such change. Matthew Morstan had never been mentioned again since that Christmas night, the day of the first anniversary of his death, and after Jane said she couldn't and that she would never forgive him. Never again they mentioned his name. Every Christmas Jane had been cheerful and Sherlock suspected she was still angry. And she had all the right in the whole world to be angry.

Sherlock didn't want her to go to that medical congress. It was Friday and she was coming back the following Monday and he knew he could perfectly took care of Sophia alone, but still, he didn't want her to go. Jane was right when she called him selfish. He was selfish and he knew it. He had promised her he was going to accompany her and support her in everything she wanted to accomplish in life.

Because it's fine to have a fight every now and then and they barely had one. The night before Jane left, he was going to sleep on the sofa when she took him to their room and kissed, probably, as she had never kissed him before.

Nothing else was said.

Three nights later, Jane was back. For three nights he barely slept. For every single day during the last five years Sherlock had shared a bed with a woman and the moment she goes away to a medical congress, and sleeps somewhere else and not on his bed, the detective feels empty. For five years Jane had been next to him, every night, every morning. He went to bed every night and every night she was there, next to him. He woke up every morning and she was still there, some times in his arms, some times lying on her side, not facing him, but still next to him, close to him.

_"Your friends will die if you don't."_

_"Jane."_

_"Not just Jane. Everyone."_

_"Mrs Hudson."_

_"Everyone."_

_"Lestrade."_

_"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now." Moriarty smiled. "Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die... unless..."_

_Sherlock swallowed hard. "Unless I kill myself – complete your story."_

_He was so far away from her only and best friend but he could feel Jane crying for him. Jane begged him not to do it. She begged him not to leave her alone. _

_The next thing Sherlock saw was Jane watching him dying, faking his own dead, pretending he had no pulse, that he was not breathing and that he was just... dead. _

_"Sherlock please, no... God."_

He opened his eyes and there she was, almost naked, wearing nothing but her own underwear and looking for her pyjamas inside their shared drawers. Her white skin looked paler in those dark garments. Her hair, falling just above her shoulders, was still wet after that bath. Even though he was lying on the bed, he could still fill that scent, the mixture of her peach soap and her citric conditioner.

Her skin as flushed – hot bath.

"Sophie said she helped you."

"Boring case. A total waste of my time."

"Shame," Jane said as she sat on her side of the bed, and rubbed her tired eyes.

Sherlock looked at his watch. It was just past midnight. It had been a dream. Just a bad dream.

Just a dream.

"Sophie needs a new pair of glasses."

"I know. She doesn't want to change them, though."

The detective pressed his warm palm against her back. He sat, with his long legs still under the covers and sheets, and pressed a shy kiss to the back of her neck. She leaned back to his touch and let out a long sigh.

Sherlock rested his chin on her shoulder, and she leaned against him. "I missed you."

"Missed you too."

Such level of intimacy had always been allowed. They could touch and kiss and that was all. That was all because that's what the two of them could give and take. For the past five years they had kissed countless times, but they were always shy, almost friendly kisses. They only kissed feverishly after a fight and they barely had one.

They had seen each other wearing nothing but underwear. Sherlock saw her naked the Sophia as born. He had seen her breastfeeding and he had memorised every bit of skin she had, conscious, or unconsciously, showed him. Sherlock knew she had a freckles on her chest, just above her breasts. He also knew Jane had a mole on her lower back, three on her left thigh and one on her right ankle. Se had lots of moles and he had seen most of them. Sherlock knew Jane had stretching marks after pregnancy and he also knew she wished she could just erase them somehow. He loved her body. More than he could actually admit.

Jane leaned back on him and closed her eyes. She let his long hands take hers while he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. As the detective, she had seen him wearing only pants and nothing at all once or maybe two times. Nudity wasn't a problem for her. Never had been, actually. She was a doctor after all and, as an A&E doctor, she practically saw naked people every day.

She remembered when was the last time she let a man touch her. And, remembering that it had been with the man he wished she could forget, Matthew Morstan, or Alexander, as his real name was, Jane wished she could get Sherlock to make love to her so she could forget him. But that was never going to happen. She didn't want Sherlock to make love to her, really. And it had been so long she didn't miss any of it.

Maybe.

"Stop it there."

"Hmm?"

"It's... it feels too much."

She could swear she saw Sherlock blushing.

Jane smiled. "You know, Sophie asked me why we never kiss or hold hands."

"Mrs Hudson's fault. I told her my daughter will get brain damage if she keeps watching soap operas."

"You think we should do it in front of her?"

"Do what?"

"You know," Jane said, lying next to Sherlock, but on her side, so she could see him. "Kiss and hold hands."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I think we should. Just to reinforce the picture she's got of us."

"And what's that?"

"Two married people who love each other."

"We love each other."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock."

"Oh."

"Exactly."

After a moment of silence, he pressed his lips against hers. He closed his eyes and kissed her deeply, as he felt he hadn't done in a very long time. He curled his long arms around her frame and pressed his body against hers. Million of things filled in his mind: the taste of Jane's lips, the tea she had after supper and the toothpaste she used to wash her teeth. Her thin lips, those lips he had missed so much were his now, finally.

Jane didn't close her eyes. She responded to the kiss but didn't close her eyes. Still, she responded and oh, she had missed those lips. Sherlock had a pair of awfully soft lips. And those lips were hers. Hers. Jane could feel the taste of the food they had, the toothpaste and that herbal tea Sherlock had with her straight after supper. She did close her eyes when she felt Sherlock's hands on the upper part of her back, pressing her against him.

"Sherlock..."

"Shut up." He rolled on top of her and finally found a place between her open legs.

And he kissed her again.

"Sherlock, stop..."

"Jane," Sherlock stopped. He looked into her eyes and took her hand. Both, instinctively, laced their fingers together and stared into each other's eyes. "I love you."

It had been a very long time since Jane had heard those words.

Neither of them knew why they had stopped saying it.

"I don't do this. This isn't me. I..." He looked away for a moment and then back to her eyes. "Look what you make me do."

Jane looked at him clueless.

"Three days made me realise I cannot live without you."

"Tell me."

"What?"

"Something is bothering you. Tell me what it is."

Sherlock looked away.

She cupped his face and brought him down until their lips met in a quick, yet loving kiss. "Sherlock, tell me."

"Five years ago we gout ourselves into a marriage of convenience in which both parties, including Sophia obviously, were getting a benefit out of this. I married you and adopted Sophia." He made a pause. "Sophia has me as her father." He paused again. "And you're with someone whose pathology you're attracted to."

"What? No. Stop right there."

"It's the truth."

"No," Jane softly pushed Sherlock off her and sat on the bed. "You think I married you just because you're a sociopath?"

"Yes. And because you wanted me to adopt your child."

Jane sighed. "I married you because I loved you."

"You didn't. You were happy with the minimal physical contact between us – the no intimacy. But I was only your friend."

"You were my friend and you still are. When we married I loved you... not as much as you did." Sherlock didn't say anything. "But I learnt how to, Sherlock." Jane smiled. "And if you haven't noticed, it's getting difficult for me... this."

Sherlock considered his words. "And for me as well." His head fell on his pillow and he let out a tired sigh. "I thought I could control it... keep myself from it." The detective turned his head to see her. "I don't know what to do."

What haunted Sherlock were nothing else but ghosts. Sherlock thought he knew what Jane felt, when he actually had no idea of her true feelings. He thought he knew her heart, but he didn't.

She cuddled him as if he were a small child. Sherlock pressed his face against her chest and inhaled her scent. Her heartbeats made him feel calm, in peace and, slowly, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

So did Jane.

The detective saw ghosts where there were any. But those ghosts will come back, and not as nightmares any more. Sherlock, in the years to come, was going to see those ghost back again. Those ghosts that haunted his domestic bliss were going to end his life as he knew it and those dark shadows from his past were going to change him forever.


	9. Ghosts from the past

**AN: This story will take a different direction. You'll see it once you finish reading this chapter. It doesn't mean the fluff is over! There will be lots of chapters featuring daddy!Sherlock :)**

**Apologies for any mistake. Thanks for reading and following!**

* * *

**Ghosts from the past  
**

Jane looked at the chart. Every single thing she had asked for was right: blood cells, white cells. Everything was in order.

Her eyes danced on the medical chart until she finally found what she was looking for. Ah, that. It was positive.

She smiled. She was pregnant. A family of three will be a family of four soon. She really missed it. Her first pregnancy had been so calm, yet Sophia kicked far too much and sometimes Jane cried. Sometimes the pain was too much to endure. But she had been a strong woman, Jane knew that. And if it hadn't been for Sherlock, she knew she would have been alone and that she wouldn't be who she was now.

"That means mummy's gonna have a baby?" The little girl asked.

"Yes. That means you'll have a brother or sister." The father explained with a beam.

Jane was witnessing the miracle of life. She looked at the screen while performing the ultrasound and watched that dark shadow that meant there was a baby. Once she had listened to the heartbeats and checked the size of the baby, she finished the ultrasound.

"Congratulations for your baby," Jane said to her patient, now happy after hearing she was pregnant. "I'll give you an order so you can schedule an appointment with the hospital's obstetrician."

Watching the woman, her husband and the child leaving, Jane couldn't help but think how much she missed that feeling - that feeling of being pregnant, expecting a baby. That feeling of longing for a child, for a child she knew she would never have, made her sad. Already a mother of a seven year old girl who was the daughter she had always dreamt of, Jane felt she still had a lot of love to give.

Sophia was a seven year old girl who was quite independent for her age. She always did her homework alone and asked for help only when she felt she needed it. However, there were no more monsters to scare away at night. Years ago, when her daughter had been just a baby and then a toddler, Jane wished Sophie was old enough to go to the bathroom alone, eat by herself and be a bit independent. Now that Sophia could do all of it, Jane thought her child was growing up very fast. She felt it had been yesterday when they helped Sophia to walk her first steps and now she was staying two weeks at her grandparents'.

"Remember these?"

Sherlock looked at the products displayed in front of them and immediately raised an eyebrow.

It had been a very silly question, Jane got to admit that. Going to the supermarket with her husband had been a bad idea, of course. Things happened every time they went to the supermarket, always. Always. Once Sherlock asked her, in the middle of quite a crowded aisle, why she was buying certain tampons if she usually bought another brand.

This time she regretted having asked that because now, Jane knew for sure, Sherlock would start with the same predicament she wished he could just forget. Jane immediately felt his piercing blue eyes on her and the detective was about to say something when she rushed to the next aisle. "Jam. We need jam. Strawberry or blueberry?"

"You saw three pregnant women today and assisted two deliveries."

"We should try..." Jane took a jar. "peach."

"Actually, you did diagnose one."

Jane put two jars of strawberry jam into the trolley Sherlock was pushing and then stopped and focused on the tea bags. "Yes, Sherlock. I also told two people they had cancer, saw a teenager with a broken ankle and told a man he's got AIDS."

Nothing else (about it) was said. Both got everything listed in their weekly shopping list, including Sherlock's special conditioner and their daughter's favourites cookies. They joined the queue, Sherlock paid and then insisted he had to carry the four shopping bags and finally, both were calmly walking back to Baker Street when the subject arose again.

"You want to have a baby."

Yes. "No."

"We could have one."

Maybe "No."

"Neither of us has fertility problems."

True. "It doesn't mean we could have one."

"Why ever not?" The detective asked, while Jane opened the door.

Jane took the stairs first. "I'm forty-two."

"And?"

"One, pregnancy after forty carries a lot of risks." Jane said and stopped at the landing. "Two, the flat is not _that_ big and three, I said I wasn't having any and I meant it." She admitted and started walking the second set of stairs to their flat.

Sherlock followed closely behind her. "But you clearly want one. You've put on three pounds this past week."

"Really? I didn't notice." She said, sarcastically.

"You're close to having your period. You're eating and sleeping more..." The detective deduced. "The perfect moment in a woman's fertile cycle to conceive a child."

Jane chuckled. "You really think if we have sex now I'll get pregnant?"

"Of course. I have it all calculated." She glared at him. "I keep track of your periods and fertile cycles."

Both walked into their flat and found Mycroft Holmes sitting on Sherlock's chair, smiling at them.

"That's..." Jane stopped when she spotted a man sitting on Sherlock's dark chair. "That's a bit creepy. Hello Mycroft, lovely to see you. Hope you haven't heard a word we'd said. Tea?"

"Hello Jane, dear brother," Mycroft smiled even more. "Yes. I did hear but little I care about your family planning. Tea would be lovely, thank you."

Sherlock handed Jane the shopping bags and sat across his brother, on his wife's chair. "Most people knock."

"I'm not most people."

"What do you want?"

"Can't I pay my brother and his lovely wife a visit?"

"No."

Jane patted Sherlock's arm. "Of course you can, Mycroft. Next time try and ring the bell, will you."

"Shall we expect a happy announcement soon?"

Jane glared at him. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Family matters."

"Oh."

"I apologise beforehand, but I must ask you to leave my brother and I alone for a moment." Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "There are matters of importance to the Holmes' family."

"She's my wife."

"Sherlock -"

The detective insisted. "She stays."

"I'd rather leave," Jane said, placing a tray with tea for two. "I've worked a twelve hour shift and I need a shower. Mycroft, make yourself at home."

Both Holmes brothers watched Jane leaving and finally getting into the room she shared with Sherlock. The detective served the tea and handed his brother a cup. Neither of them said anything until both had drank at least one sip of their infusions.

"I understand Jane, as your wife, belongs to the family. But you will agree with me she can't know what I am to tell you."

"What is it this time, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked from his place. "Another MOD man betrayed your trust and some secret plans must be found?"

Mycroft smiled. "Close, but no. Although that would have been preferable."

"What is it then?"

"There have been a series of... disappearances in our most selected circle of recruits within the secret service." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and waited for his brother to explain more about this 'possible' case. "Three of our agents have vanished without leaving a trace for us to start with. Two of them belonged to the lowest rank and worked in the national security council doing paperwork. The third man, however, is who I really care to find."

"He's not any man."

The politician nodded. "He trains our men, therefore, he is not any agent."

"My job doesn't involve looking for missing people."

"He's worked for us for more than thirty years." Mycroft hesitated for a moment. His eyes fell on the picture of his niece, a lovely golden haired girl who wore glasses and made his brother happy. "He is, shall we say, one of the most important men within the secret service."

"That's not everything." Sherlock concluded. "You didn't come to me for advice, nor to find these men." The detective's eyes lit up. "You don't care about their whereabouts. You care for what they know."

Mycroft nodded. "Their disappearance is not of my concern, yes." Sherlock looked at him. "But this agent... this particular man knows every piece of information we keep from the world."

"And?"

"Someone has been threatening our security system for a while now. No matter what we try, we can't identify the source."

Something in Mycroft's eyes made Sherlock realise there was more. A lot more. Suddenly, those ghosts that had been haunting the detective for the last years were back. Those ghosts were not nightmares any more. Those ghosts were taking a human shape now.

"He's dead."

"Is he?"

Sherlock sighed. "He shot his brains out. I saw it."

"The only person who did the same and who knew _how_ _to_ was him."

"This isn't Moriarty." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "He's _dead_."

Mycroft's eyes focused on the woman wearing his brother's blue dressing gown and whose hair was damp. She put the kettle on and walked into the living room.

"Staying for lunch? I'm cooking Sherlock's favourite."

"No, he is not," Sherlock said, standing up and glaring at his brother. "He has matters to attend to."

The politician smiled. "Good bye, Jane. Thank you for the tea." Then, he turned to his brother. "Seven years married and you haven't fucked it up. Well done, brother."

"Shut up!"

Once Mycroft was gone, Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa and sulked.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Lunch was prepared, served and eaten in complete silence. Sherlock's sulky moments used to be Jane's favourites. She, somehow, liked watching the detective, her husband, curled into a ball in the sofa, facing the wall and not muttering a single word for hours. Sometimes she and Sophia betted for how long Sherlock could sulk during the day.

But this time was different. Sherlock was not only sulking. Sherlock was also angry.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"You sure?" Jane asked, pushing her plate aside and focusing on her husband.

Sherlock finished his food. "Yes." He then took the empty plates to the sink. "You worked a twelve hour shift. Go and get some rest. I'll wash."

Jane knew something was wrong. Sherlock barely washed the dishes. Actually, the detective never cared much about the chores. But ever since she started working again, he started helping her more and, obviously, Mrs Hudson helped too, sometimes doing their lino, sometimes the dusting.

And Sherlock kept nothing to himself. Ever since they got married, Jane became quite involved in everything related to the Holmes family. She was present the day Sherlock and Mycroft's parents signed their wills leaving everything, in case something happened to them, to their two sons and their only grandchild. Jane had also spent every single Christmas and New Year's at her in-laws and she got quite close to both of them, Sherlock's mother and father.

Sherlock had also written his will and appointed Jane and their daughter as his only heirs. Jane did the same and, as her husband, appointed the detective and their daughter as her only heirs. She didn't have much things and money like Sherlock, just the house her parents had left to her and her brother Harry.

Jane was also acquainted with everything related to Sherlock's job and his own health. Jane was his doctor too. She was his wife, and beyond that, she worried. She was constantly worried and she liked to look after her husband, after Sherlock, and not because he was her husband, but because he was also her friend and she loved him.

This time, it was crystal clear that something was bothering Sherlock.

She took a kitchen towel and started drying the plates. "Have you called your parents?"

"Yes."

"How's Sophie doing?"

"They say she's behaving." Jane smiled. "She asked me if she's allowed to stay longer."

"We should let her," Jane commented. She had just finished drying everything Sherlock had washed and was now leaning against the counter, next to her husband. "Well, if your parents want her to stay too. Fresh air won't hurt her."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes not meeting Jane's. "It'll better if she stays with them for a while."

"Love, is there anything you wanna tell me?"

The detective dried his hands and stared at her for long seconds. He couldn't recall when was the last time Jane had called him 'love' or if maybe this was the first time she was doing so.

Then, he noticed she was wearing nothing under his blue dressing gown. He frowned and asked himself why was it that he was noticing such details now. He had seen her naked and sometimes wearing her underwear only. For god's sake, they shared a bed. The detective knew her body. He knew her. And yet, he wondered why was it that now he needed her in a way he thought he would never do.

Sherlock repressed his own desire and did not kiss her as he wanted to. "I can't tell you now."

"Okay... it's okay." Jane took his hand and gave it a soft, reassuring squeeze. "Whatever happens, remember that I love you."

Sherlock frowned. "Hmm?"

"Forget it," she smiled. "I need to sleep."

When she retired to their room, Sherlock took his coat and left.

* * *

_"You." Sherlock can't breathe. "You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel pain?"_

_The crazy man looks at him. "You always feel it, Sherlock."_

_Moriarty is barefoot. He's tied. There are chains. He's chained. He's broken. _

_He's dead. _

_"But you don't have to fear it!"_

_The detective cries. He's in agony. He feels the pain and it's unbearable. Sherlock can't help it but fall down. The pain is too much to endure and he can't stand it any longer. _

_He wishes he could die._

_Just die._

_"Pain. Heartbreak. Loss." Says Jim from his spot. "Death. It's all good. It's all good."_

_Sherlock closes his eyes. He waits and waits but nothing happens. Nothing. Death doesn't come. Or does it? Is it here? When will it be here? Why can't he just die?_

_Why?_

_"It's raining... it's pouring..." Jim sings. "Sherlock is boring..." Moriarty sings to him to sleep. "I'm laughing... I'm crying... Sherlock is dying..."_

_"Sherlock," He sees Jane taking his hand, shaking him. "We're losing you. Sherlock?"_

_He knows he's lying on a stretcher. Doctors tear his shirt open and there is a wound and blood. Lots of blood. He can see Jane's face: she's about to cry. She running next to the stretcher that carries him to the ambulance and she can barely do it now that she's pregnant. _

_"Come on, Sherlock," Jim whispers to his ear. "Just die. Why can't you?"_

_He's insane. Everything is insane and nothing makes sense. He's locked up in a room where he can barely move and Jim Moriarty is there with him. Both are jailed together. Why? Why is Jim wearing chains? _

_And why is it that there are chains for him too?_

_"One little push," Jim mumbles. "and off you pop."_

_Sherlock can watch himself being operated. The doctor takes a pair of paddles and asks the people around him to step back. They are defibrillating his heart._

_He's dying._

_"You're gonna love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you."_

_He wants to. He really wants to die because the pain is unbearable and he can't stand it any longer. He just can't. _

_But he keeps on hearing her voice, Jane's voice. She keeps calling him and pulling at his hand, shaking his shoulders, asking him, between tears, not to die. _

_"Mrs Hudson will cry... and Mummy and Daddy will cry..." Jim tells him. "and The Woman will cry... and Jane will cry buckets and buckets."_

_Jane._

_"It's her that I worry about the most..." Jim says, looking truly alarmed. "That hubby!"_

_Morstan. Of course. It was Matthew Morstan who shot him._

_"You're letting her down, Sherlock. Jane Watson is definitely in danger."  
_

_Sherlock opens her eyes and realises what Jim means. _

_He sees the monitor showing a flat line. He's dead. Finally, he is. His heart stopped beating and he's dead. _

_Matthew Morstan killed him._

_Jane's husband killed him._

_He can't leave her. He just can't. Jane's in danger. He has to tell her. He must. Jane must know her husband is a killer. _

_She must know who her husband is.  
_

_"Oh, you're not getting better, are you?" Jim asks, darkly, when he sees Sherlock standing on his feet and trying to reach the door of their shared cell. "Was it something I said, huh?"_

_He knows he can do it. Sherlock has to come back. He can no longer feel Jane shaking his shoulders, asking him to wake up. _

_Sherlock knows he must protect her. _

_"Jane!"_

_He is free. He wakes up.  
_

_But he swears he could see Moriarty breaking free and following him out their shared cell.  
_

When he opened his eyes, he met Jane's worried blue orbs. He rapidly sat and took off his tee. He turned on the light of the lamp on his bedside and tried to find a wound, quickly, but here is no such wound. There is no blood. He was safe. Sherlock looked at his surroundings and realised he was not at Magnussen's office but in his room, with Jane next to him on their bed.

He was safe.

Sherlock pressed his palms to his face when he felt his cheeks wet. He realised he had been crying.

It had been a dream, a nightmare.

Just a dream.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me -"

"It was nothing." And with that, the detective tossed to his side and turned off the light of his lamp.

He could feel Jane pulling at the covers and finally she turned on the lights of the room. "No, we're talking about this. Sherlock?" He tossed to face her. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Don't say is nothing. You've not been yourself these days. You barely speak and you only do it to correct the telly or to call our daughter." Jane paused and looked into his eyes. "You barely talk to me now."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Sherlock please, tell me."

For a moment neither of them said a word. But then, slowly, Jane bent down and kissed him. She kissed him, probably, as she hadn't kissed him in a long time. They only kissed feverishly after a fight and they barely had one. And the detective had to admit he had missed those kisses, when both seemed to fight each other and see who could leave the other breathless.

He slowly took her into his arms and soon he felt all her body being pressed against his. His long hands moved to her lower back and finally rested on her hipbones, the very same moment she placed each leg on his sides. When she tried to break the kiss, Sherlock deepened it and moved his hands up and down her spine, feeling the smooth skin.

"Love please, let me help you." Jane said after breaking their kiss.

"I can't tell you. Not now."

"Is it something bad?"

He looked into her eyes. "I don't know."

"Just... promise me you'll be careful. Don't leave us, Sherlock. Please, don't leave me and our daughter alone. _Please_."

"I won't."


	10. Open doors

**AN: Thanks for reading and following!**

**Apologies in advance for any mistake.**

* * *

**Open doors**

"Another suicide," Lestrade said while Sherlock was on his knees next to the victim, examining the body. "Ryan Norton, 32. Computer system engineer. Lived alone. Owns this place apparently," Greg said, his eyes on the ceiling and on the expensive and trendy decorations of the flat. "No credit cards, no bills. We found his identification, though," Greg handed it to Sherlock. "You might want to call your brother."

Sherlock examined the victim's ID. This man was one of the recruits from the secret service who had gone missing last year. It looked like a suicide: the victim had a gun on his right hand (was right handed) and his brains painted the walls. The killer knew what he was doing – he, yes.

"He didn't commit suicide."

"Someone killed him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Ryan Norton was right handed." Sherlock examined the bloodstains on the walls. "The killer's left handed."

"Left handed?"

"And trained."

"Why making it look like a suicide?"

Sherlock looked at the victim's hand and the gun. "The shot suggests the victim had enemies. Dangerous enemies."

Dangerous enemies indeed.

Someone wanted this man – the victim, dead… for some reason.

There was nothing else they could use to start the investigation. The man had no job, there were no papers, no computers, nothing that could suggest what might have killed him, who had been his enemies, etc. The only thing they knew was that he was a computer system engineer. Looking for information, they noticed the victim had no criminal records, no previous job, there was nothing on the system.

They were dealing with a ghost.

There were no further developments regarding the case of Ryan Norton. Sherlock confirmed he had worked, as Mycroft said, for the National Security Council and he was one of the three agents from the secret service who had gone missing the previous year. Yet, the mystery grew when no one claimed his body. No family members claimed his body or his belongings.

Having no clues to start a proper investigation made Sherlock anxious, to say the least. He barely ate and spent long hours staring at the photographs of the crime scene, reading the forensics report and so on. The detective barely ate and he only did it when they had supper, because the three of them were together and he loved to listen to his daughter's account of her day, her laugh.

"What are you up to, dad?" Sophia asked one afternoon, sitting next to her father and peering over his shoulder. "Case?"

Sherlock handed her a photograph. "What's missing?"

"How can I tell?"

"_Observe._"

One minute later Sophia was pointing at several elements she thought were missing. "His computer, dad! _Everyone_ has a computer."

"There was no computer."

"The killer might have taken it. You said Ryan Norton worked for the secret service... maybe he had had important information stored there so the killer took the computer."

Sherlock stared at the photograph of Ryan Norton's desk for long seconds. The victim had a computer and, yes, he should have noticed that.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Am I right?"

"Yes, Sophie," Sherlock let her daughter curl against him. "You're very clever."

The eight year old smiled. "I wanna be clever like you."

"You already are."

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

Sophie adjusted her glasses. "When is mummy coming home?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied as he headed to the kitchen. "She's covering for a colleague. Chinese or Indian?"

"Dim sum!"

Dinner was eaten between stories of friends, the latests Doctor Who episodes and Sophia mostly asking him if she could spend the summer at her grandparents'. Later, when the girl was in her pyjamas, when she had already brushed her teeth and when all the school homework was done, she took her favourite book downstairs and asked her daddy to read it for her.

Sherlock put the evidence, the photographs, the files and so on aside and started reading his daughter her favourite tale.

* * *

Walking the seventeen steps from the front door to her flat seemed like a long path with no end. What started like a eight hour shift ended up being a sixteen hour shift. The only thing she wanted to do right now was to take a shower and sleep. No food, no. Jane felt she could not even have a glass of water, though she was sure she was dehydrated. Water, tea more likely, was what she needed but no. Jane truly wanted nothing. Nothing.

One thing, though.

The door was ajar and everything was dark but for the soft light of the lamp in the living room. Jane slowly, but very slowly, opened the door and found her husband sitting on the sofa with a book in one hand and a young girl curled next to him, resting her golden head on his shoulder.

Sherlock, of course, knew she was there, but kept on reading.

"It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him. Dragons may not have much real use for all their wealth, but they know it to an ounce as a rule, especially after long possession; and Smaug was no exception."

The child next to him was falling asleep. Her eyelids finally fell, and her soft snoring filled in the silence of the room.

Jane left her bag and moved close to her husband. She pressed a kiss to his lips and caressed her daughter's golden fringe. "Sophie."

"Mummy..."

"It's late, darling. Come on, let's go to bed," Jane whispered softly. Sophie slowly stood up and leaned against her mother. "Have you washed your teeth?"

Sophia yawned. "Yeah."

"Okay. Come on, let's go to bed."

Upstairs, once Sophia was in bed, she took off her glasses and smiled a bit. "Daddy was reading _The Hobbit_ for me."

"My dad read me that one when I was your age," Jane commented, sitting next to her daughter. "How was school today?"

"Good."

Jane kissed her daughter's forehead. "Good night, darling."

"Night, mummy."

Half an hour later Jane was sitting on her chair, she was holding a cup of tea in one and and finishing some paperwork before going to sleep. At least she had two days off and she knew once she finished those papers, she could sleep for as long as she wanted to.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing you should apologise for."

"No, Sherlock." Jane said, placing her cup and the papers onto the table next to her. "I... every time I tried to leave something happened and apparently the entire population of London had cardiac arrests, broken arms or had been shot at."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her. He spoke no word.

They had never celebrated their anniversaries. The first one went unnoticed. The second one, when Jane remembered it, Sophia had been ill and the dinner she had planned had to be forgotten. All the following anniversaries were spent taking care of their daughter, Sherlock working on a case, Jane working long shifts, Sophie falling ill and so on.

This time they were having dinner at a very fancy restaurant and Jane felt she had ruined everything. Sherlock was not the let's-celebrate-our-anniversary type, let alone the kind of husband who buys flowers and chocolates. But this time, he did it. This time Sherlock got her flowers and made reservations at a very nice restaurant. They had talked to Mrs Hudson and she was looking after their daughter while they were out. But nothing of it happened: they didn't go out, they didn't walk their favourites streets together, they didn't hold hands, as they started doing every time they went out. They didn't have a nice dinner and Sherlock was sleeping on their bed and Jane was sitting in the living room, doing paperwork and writing medical reports.

Jane had to admit they had quite a good marriage. Eight years together, as a married couple, and they still were together. The doctor never thought they could make it that long. They were doing well as friends and marriage seemed pointless to her but it was convenient since her baby was fatherless and Jane feared something might happen to her and Sophia would be left alone with no one to look after her.

The day they got married Jane thought they would be filling in a divorce petition in less than a year.

Yet, eight years later, they were still together – they were still married.

Their relationship had been in constant change ever since they got married. For instance, Sherlock was softer. Before, if he had to call her 'stupid', he would have done it without thinking about it for a second or two. Now the detective kissed her, and he would have never done it before, when they were just friends and shared no legal status.

The one who had really changed Sherlock was Sophia. Jane couldn't believe it when she found him signing to Sophie to sleep, or when he changed her nappies and fed her and cuddled her and loved her as if she were his real daughter. Jane beamed when she remembered Sherlock signing lullabies, scaring monsters away, helping Sophie walking her first steps, then nursing her when she was ill...

Sophia was four when she got chicken pox. It was a very, but very hot summer and Sophie wouldn't stop scratching. No matter what they told her, she wouldn't stop complaining, scratching and crying. Jane had lost all her patience. However, Sherlock stayed up with Sophia, making anti-itch cream for her and explaining her how it worked. Once the chicken pox was gone, Sophia had no scars left.

_"Look, mummy! Daddy make special cream!"_

Sherlock looked at the pile of clothes left on their bed. He took the garment on top and inhaled its scent. Jane's scent. It was a mixture of her own perfume and disinfectant – that horrible scent from the hospital she worked at. He looked at the discarded piece of clothing. He couldn't help but wonder how is it that a woman had changed him so much. Before he met Jane Watson he could barely bear having a woman near him. Now he could barely survive a day without one; without Jane.

The detective took his shirt off and added it to the pile of clothes when he felt her warm palm against his chest, the pads of her fingers caressed, softly, the scar Matthew Morstan left when he shot him. It was late, he knew it. Her hair was still damp and he knew she hadn't finished writing those medical reports she brought home. She was wearing his blue gown, and he also knew she was wearing nothing underneath. Her pink lips were dry, still inviting.

Something in her eyes made him realise.

He pulled at his own dressing gown, which she was wearing, and revealed her nakedness. Sherlock looked into her eyes, but there was no shyness. She had no desire to cover her body and he had no desire to see it covered.

"Sherlock..." she whispered.

He silenced her with a kiss. Nothing else was said. No permission was asked, nor was needed. They touched, kissed, explored each other bodies, looked into each other's eyes and followed their feelings. Sensations were discovered. New sensations and feelings filled in Sherlock's mind. There was a whole new room for everything Jane was giving him, for all she was making him feel.

Sherlock discovered Jane was not what he thought she was. Jane was not only an excellent mother, a good woman, a faithful friend, companion, and wife. Jane was also a woman and the only onew ho ever made him feel this way. Such carnal instinct he had always thought he lacked of was there and Jane was doing nothing more than proving him wrong: he had always wanted this. Sherlock had always wanted her and he regretted delaying this moment for so long.

"You're beautiful."

Jane blushed. She knew that even in the darkness of their room, he could see her blushing. Of course he could. Sherlock Holmes had super powers. He was not every man. Of course he wasn't. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective in the funny hat was tender and loving and everything Jane thought he wasn't. Sherlock was warm. He knew where he had to kiss her, where he had to touch her, what he had to do to make her feel special. God, Sherlock knew how to love her.

She would have never realised how much she missed being loved, in such an intimate way, if it hadn't been for her husband. If it hadn't been for Sherlock Holmes. If it hadn't been for the father of her daughter. Sherlock was unique in every sense of the word and that night was to change their lives forever because if they had always loved each other, if Sherlock had always loved her and if he had never professed any desire for her body, now this was to change.

Jane was so fragile in his arms. Sherlock feared he might break her. It was driving him crazy. Both danced and moved in unison. Their mouths were never apart. Their hands never stopped exploring their bodies. He never stopped moving and her mouth never stopped calling his name.

His name because Jane was his.

Only his.

The moment came. Sherlock looked into her eyes and saw himself there. He was there. In her. In Jane.

Jane gave him a smile Sherlock swore he had never seen before. She pressed a last kiss to his lips and rested in his arms for the rest of the night.


	11. Dominant

**AN: Thanks for reading and following!**

**Apologies in advance for any mistake.**

* * *

**Dominant**

"Right handed."

"Left handed."

"_Right_ handed," Jane took off the pair of blue latex gloves and stepped back from the victim, a young man lying dead on the floor. "Neat shot."

Sherlock frowned. "What makes you the killer was right handed?"

"The gunpowder on the victim's hand," Jane knelt next to the body and pointed at the victim's wrist for Sherlock to see what she meant. "Here, see? The killer is right handed. He used his dominant hand to shoot _and_ place the gun in the victim's hand. He didn't take into account the gunpowder though."

"A stupid mistake."

"Another 'suicide' then?" Greg asked them.

"Obviously."

"Any ID's? Credit cards?" Jane asked.

Greg assented. "He's another agent."

"Another?"

"Hmm. Mycroft reported three missing agents last year. Three weeks ago Ryan Norton was found dead. Now it's Jason Simmons." Greg told Jane. "34. Single. No bills, no credit cards. Nothing. Just his ID."

Sherlock looked at it. "Any computers?"

"Nothing."

"You think he stole information?" Jane asked her husband.

"Mycroft said Norton and Simmons were not his main concern."

"Not his main concern?" Jane said, sarcastically.

"The two of them worked for the National Security Council. Both were computer system engineers and worked in the same department."

Jane looked at him confusedly. "You think someone wanted them dead?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That's why we need their computers."

More details concerning the crime scene were exchanged. Greg had his forensic team working on footprints, any digits left but there was nothing. The killer was indeed a trained man because he left no marks, no traces. Just gunpowder.

The victim's computer had also been taken and Sherlock, again, had nothing to star with. Just their names, their bodies left, and nothing else.

"Have to go," Jane said, glancing at her watch and taker her bag with her. "My shift starts soon."

The detective held Jane's hand and both started walking side by side. "I'll walk you to the hospital."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

"Okay."

They walked together in comfortable silence for some minutes. The streets were crowded, as always, but little they cared. It was quite a sunny morning, a bit cold, but sunny. They stopped for a quick coffee and then resumed their walk.

"You've never walked me to the hospital."

"There's always a first time," Sherlock replied, blushing, still holding her hand, but not meeting her eyes. "Will you come late tonight?"

Jane smiled at the little children walking before them, each holding their mum's hands. "No. Just eight hours today."

When they arrived at the hospital, there were already three ambulances rushing patients into the hospital. One of the paramedics, who seemed to know Jane, told her there had been a car crash and there were around fifteen people hurt.

"Have to go. See you -"

But Sherlock didn't let her go. He put his long arms around her, brought her closer to him and kissed her deeply. "I love you."

For a moment Jane wished she could back home. She wished she could kiss Sherlock more. She also wished they could go on walking all their favourite streets. But duty was calling her. She had an eight hour shift and Sherlock a case to work on.

Jane beamed. "No one's ever... _ever_ made feel like you did." She smiled and noticed Sherlock was blushing. "We'll talk about it later, okay? I love you."

The detective watched Jane pulling her stethoscope from inside her bag and rushing to the ambulances. Putting his hands into the pockets of his long coat, Sherlock walked back home. He had a lot of things to think about. One, who killed Ryan Norton and Jason Simmons, why the killer took their computers and what for. Two, if these two murders were, somehow, liked to Moriarty. Mycroft was stupid to even suggest it. Moriarty shot his brains out, Sherlock was convinced of it, of course he was. He saw it. He saw it with his own eyes. James Moriarty had been dead for more than a decade – and there will never be a reason for him to be alive. Jim Moriarty was just dead.

And three, Sherlock still had to think about the previous night. He still blushed when he remembered that night, when he recalled those moments when he finally realised what was to love a woman – what was to love Jane. His mind palace had a new room and it was difficult for him to catalogue the feelings and images he had stored there there previous night.

It was still difficult for him to even think if he could, some day, do it again. What the detective had done, he knew, was against his own beliefs. Sherlock had always controlled himself. He had always kept himself away from those carnal instincts and needs he thought he didn't have. Sex was, for him, a distraction – something he could live without.

But Jane had proved him wrong. When he woke up, and before Lestrade had called him because another agent has been found dead, Sherlock found himself alone on his bed. Jane had been gone for long minutes, hours maybe, he calculated. The side next to him was cold and Sherlock could hear his daughter having breakfast, asking Jane to help her with her hair and saying she would be late. He also listened to Jane telling her to stop making a fuss because she was taking her to school and that she wasn't going to be late. He had a quick shower, dressed himself and announced that after taking Sophia to school they were meeting Lestrade.

On their way to school, Sherlock listened to Sophia asking Jane if they were spending Christmas and New Year's at nan and papa Holmes, if she could have a horse as a present, if they were baking cakes and if uncle Billy was going too. The detective watched Jane's hands taking their daughter's, saying they were spending Christmas and New Year's in the country, with nan and papa Holmes, that they were baking cakes as always and that uncle Billy was invited too, of course. Sherlock looked at those hands that had showed him what love was and wondered when he would feel those hands again on him, caressing him tenderly, softly.

But for now, he had to focus on Ryan Norton and Jason Simmons.

* * *

"Why life is soooooo difficult?"

Sherlock looked at the girl sitting across him. She was drinking her chocolate milk and eating her biscuits while he checked his emails: Lestrade still had no more clues for Sherlock to start an investigation with. Simmons, as Ryan Norton, had no criminal records and there was nothing about them on the system – which was clearly obvious since both had been agents trained by secret service.

"Jack likes Mary and Mary likes him too," Sophia said, pulling her fringe off her forehead and adjusting her pink glasses. "Jack wants to tell Mary he loves her but he's afraid!"

It took the detective less than two seconds to realise what his daughter was talking about. "Are you watching soap operas?"

"They are fun, daddy. Besides, nan Hudson says I can watch it because in this one people don't kiss."

"You're not allowed to watch such things."

"But they are fun, dad!" Sophia complained. "Why you think Jack is afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Of telling Mary he loves her. It's so silly! He just has to go and tell her! Mary likes him too!"

Such stupid story resembled his own, Sherlock realised. Both Jack and Mary, according to Sophia's account of the story, were friends but both liked each other too. Jack was, actually, in love with Mary and she was in love with him too. However, Jack thought what he felt was merely an unrequited love. What Jack didn't know was that Mary actually loved him back.

Sherlock smiled when he saw on his daughter Jane's eyes, Jane's lips, Jane's sandy hair. His daughter had inherited most of the Watson's features and also some illnesses, such as her difficulty to see like everyone else. Since Sophia was three she used glasses and Sherlock always thought she looked adorable. Sophia, as her mother, was also soft, gentile, calm, had a good soul and, apparently, was a good friend since every birthday she had invited more than fifteen girls and all of them had attended her birthday parties.

Sophia had also inherited, somehow, Sherlock's nose and ears. Everyone said she looked like them, like the detective and Jane. But opposite Sherlock, Sophia had straight golden hair. Jane's hair. However, like Sherlock, Sophia could also sulk a bit sometimes, especially when she had been a little girl and when she didn't get what she wanted.

"It's not silly, Sophie. It's not always easy to change such status between friends."

The golden haired girl seemed to process the information for a moment. "And... were you afraid too... when you told mum you loved her?"

"No." Sherlock answered immediately. "A bit. Yes."

"You were mummy's best friend, right?"

The only one. "Yes."

"And you loved her lots, right?"

Immensely. "Yes."

His daughter smiled. "Mum says she'd always loved you but she was afraid you wouldn't feel the same."

I know. "And what else did she say?"

"Well, that one day you said you loved her. She also said you were boyfriends for a few years before I was born and then you married."

No Matthew Morstan then. Of course. They had agreed, many years ago, when Sophia was still a baby of a few months old, that they would never tell her the truth: that she was not Sherlock Holmes' daughter but someone else's... someone else's who had been a top trained assassin.

Sherlock knew this was for the best. Sophia should never know about that, about Matthew Morstan, about Magnussen. Sophia was his daughter after all. Sherlock had raised her. He had stayed many nights up with her when she was ill, so had Jane. The detective, as Jane, looked after her in every sense of the word and no one could ever deny Sherlock wasn't a good father. Because he was.

I wish. "Yes."

"And they didn't invite mummy and father. Nor me."

"Uncle Mycroft!"

"Hello, Sophia," Mycroft addressed to his niece and then turned to his brother. "Good afternoon, dear brother. May I?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Kettle just boiled."

Mycroft made his way to Jane's armchair. "I appreciate your kindness, but I must reject the tea."

The detective understood. "Sophia, go to your room. Mycroft is about to give another of his boring speeches."

"There are matters of great importance I ought to discuss with your father," Mycroft paraphrased Sherlock's words.

"Can I go and stay with nan Hudson?"

"Yes."

As soon as the eight year old was out of earshot, Mycroft delivered the first of his messages. "Detective Inspector Lestrade has been in touch. Jason Simmons has been found."

"Yes."

"And you never considered I needed to be told about it?"

Sherlock shrugged as if he were a seven year old boy. "Why wasting my time?"

"Well?"

The detective held Mycroft's gaze.

The politician smiled. "It's textbook, Sherlock."

"I know."

"Alistair Johnson must be found."

"You were his employer, yet you don't know where he is."

"And that's why I hired you."

"You didn't hire me."

Mycroft titled his head. "Ah. Domestic bliss suits you fine."

"Shut up!"

"We are being attacked." Mycroft admitted. "There are uncountable lives at stake, Sherlock."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Find him."

"I said –"

"Moriarty is back."

Sherlock froze.

"It's the same pattern. We're expecting our bank's vaults to be opened, Pentonville prison to free all its prisoners and the Crown's jewels to be taken any moment now."

"He killed himself. I saw him."

"Tell me, dear brother," Mycroft stood up and headed to the door. "Which hand did he use?"

Mycroft left. Sherlock glued his hands together under his chin. He remembered that morning, of course he did. He remembered the breeze on his face, the clouds, the rooftop, Moriarty's 'Stayin' Alive' ringtone and Jane's voice on his phone, asking him, begging him not to jump, not to leave her alone.

Moriarty put a gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. He blew his own brains out.

He used his left hand.

But Moriarty was right handed.

* * *

"Mycroft knows it."

"God," Jane closed her eyes and sighed tiredly. "Is there anything he doesn't know about our marriage?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment.

"Does he know my measurements?"

"Probably."

"I wonder how the two of you ended up being like this."

Sherlock frowned. "Like what?"

"Like this," she answered as if she was talking about the most obvious thing in the planet. "Your parents are pretty normal."

"So?"

"Mycroft is the British Government and you're the world's only consulting detective."

"And?"

Jane smiled a bit. "Forget it. Any advance on the agents' case?"

"Mycroft thinks it's Moriarty."

"He's dead."

"I know. I was there."

"Oh, how could I have forgotten."

Sherlock looked at her confusedly. "Problem?"

"Yes. Are we in danger?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Of course."

Jane shook her head. "You were also sure when –" she gasped. "We have a daughter now, Sherlock."

"I know. She's upstairs sleeping."

"Just... don't get involved."

"Why?"

"Why?" Jane repeated, angrily this time. "Because this time you're not alone, Sherlock, that's why. It's not you, you know. It's..."

Sherlock's piercing eyes focused on hers. "You're afraid something could happen."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."

"This could be the remaining of Moriarty's empire –"

"I don't want Sophie to get hurt," Jane cut Sherlock off. "This time they'll hit you were it hurts, and that's our daughter."

The detective cupped Jane's face with his long hands and pressed a kiss to her soft lips. "I will never let that happen."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I love you, that's why," Sherlock's fingers started working on her shirt, as his mouth moved downwards, pressing soft, chaste kiss to her neck, her collarbone and her breasts. "I'll never let anyone hurt you."

That night, Jane slept safely in Sherlock's arms. She rested her head against his naked torso and slept.

However, Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. With his wife in his arms, her naked body pressed against his, he remembered that morning at Bart's rooftop.

Moriarty was dead.

He had to be.


	12. Murder

**AN: Thanks for reading and following! Three more chapters to go!  
**

**Apologies in advance for any mistake.**

* * *

**Murder  
**

"You don't tell him."

The man smiled. He really enjoyed knowing people's secrets. Secrets were keys, and honey, in a world of locked doors the one with the key is king and oh, you should totally see him in a crown. Secrets were what moved people. Husbands and wives cheat on each other all the time. Employees lie to their employers all the time. Daughters and sons lie to their parents all the time. Some people fake their own death all the time.

Some people lie to the one they care the most all the time.

A white lie?

Does that even exist?

Was this a white lie? No. Was this for his own good? No. The man, the owner of everyone's secrets, wondered why he had kept this secret for so long. Why he had protected this liar.

Maybe it was time to reveal some secrets. It is time for some people to know a hidden true, kept for so many years. It was time for someone to show those true colours that had been disguised for so many years.

"He ought to know. Everyone ought to."

"No."

"My dear," the man smiled creepily. "I will only cause your own downfall."

"Precisely. You don't tell him."

"No harm will be done."

"You'll destroy me."

Ah. He loved watching people begging. It was one of his favourite things in the world, actually. For so many years he had known every piece of information the government kept from the world and oh, it was so good. It had always been so good to see them begging. They, those who in front of cameras were so illustrious, always the righteous, blameless men but within the four walls of his office they became beggars – useless, unimportant men.

He loved this. This little game.

"For how long have we been playing this game?" the man asked, pleased by seeing that person sitting across him suffering, begging, imploring. It caused him too much pleasure indeed. "Ten years?"

"Almost fourteen."

"_Almost_ fourteen!" The man laughed. "Time flies, does it. Yes, definitely. Time flies when you are having such a great time."

"You don't tell him. You hear me?"

"Or what?"

"I'll kill you."

Now this was getting just better. Most people had already done the same and all of them lied. None had killed him. None had ever defied him as much as he was being defied just now. No one had ever contradicted him. And no one ever had such a secret like this one. "Oh, I would like to see that happening."

"I've killed Norton and Simmons without leaving a trace. I can definitely do it again."

The king of secrecy smiled even more. "Can _you_?"

"He can't know. I'll never let that happen, you hear me?"

"He said the same, remember?"

A shrug. "I've been able to keep this from him for fourteen years. I can still do it for the rest of our lives."

* * *

"Coat mail, coat of arms, twenty one swords, a breastplate, five close helm," Sally Donovan enumerated and finally pointed at the two elements found in the victim's flat. "And iron bars."

Greg nodded. "A medieval freak?"

"Apparently." Sally agreed. "We're looking for missing things. Asphyxiated."

"Wrong."

Sally Donovan rolled her eyes. "What do you suggest then, Sherlock."

"This man _wasn't_ asphyxiated," Sherlock looked at the victim's burned hands. "The marks on his neck are self inflicted. He died because of the infection in the burnt area." The detective paid special attention at the victim's hands and even took some pictures using his camera phone.

She knew the victim didn't die asphyxiated. Anderson had already declared the cause of death was the infection on his burnt hands. Still, Lestrade insisted they should call Sherlock Holmes because this was a murder. Sally Donovan knew this man lying dead on his own bed had no enemies and he hadn't been killed. Yet, she wondered why Sherlock Holmes decided to take the case and why she had to bear his presence _again_.

"Your suggestion is?" Sally asked him again.

"I do not _suggest_. This man died after following a medieval trial."

Greg looked at the detective in disbelief. "Medieval trial?"

"Have you ever been to school?"

"Yeah but... come on, Sherlock. Medieval trial?"

"In Medieval times, when two people accused each other and there wasn't enough evidence to prove the innocence of one or both of them, they practice ordeals. They were based on the premise that God would help the innocent by performing a miracle on their behalf."

Sally bit her lip. "So two hot iron bars killed him?"

"The burnt area is infected," Anderson stepped into the crime scene. "He died because of the infections."

"Brilliant deduction of the obvious," Sherlock mocked Anderson. "Look at him. A young man in his early thirties, overweight, probably had cardiac diseases, porn addict and his flat is filled in with medieval stuff. It's clearly obvious."

Greg shook his head. "Excuse me? 'Obvious'?"

"Deeply religious," Sherlock pointed at the cross around the victim's neck, then at the cross above the victim's bed and finally the cross on the breastplate the victim wore. "Gay porn on his computer," Sherlock said, showing Sally, Anderson and Greg the porn files in the victim's computer. "Obsessed with medieval culture and lifestyle, he tried the ordeal by fire. Held two red iron bars and walked three to nine steps and waited for his wounds to heal."

"They didn't," Anderson pointed again. "He died because of the infections."

"Guilty." Sherlock replied, nonchalantly. Soon he noticed the question in everyone's faces. "When the wounds didn't heal, the accused was found guilty. Now excuse me, but I must make some reservations."

* * *

"How long will it take?"

Jane went through the patient's medical chart and made some calculations. Before speaking, the nurse seeing the patient nodded at her and then glanced at the machines connected to the patient's heart. "A few hours. Maybe a day."

"Is he suffering?"

"No. That's what sedatives are for." Jane assured the patient's daughter.

"Okay. Thank you Dr Watson."

Jane gave the woman a comforting smile. "No problem. You can stay with him for as long as you need."

As the doctor she was, Jane did the rounds and visited each patient. Doing rounds basically consisted in seeing patients she had made to stay in observation. She had to examine the patients, check they were taking their medications and finally control the nurses were doing their jobs. Medical charts were signed, several medical reports had to be written, some patients had to be discharged and her lunch break was ten minutes away.

"What do you recommend for third degree burns?"

Jane didn't look up and kept on signing charts and controlling medication doses. "Ask the patient if she or he had a tetanus shot and –" She turned to face the man standing next to her. "Sherlock? What are you doing here? I'm sorry but if you're on a case and you need a stethoscope and a white coat to play doctor, I won't give you any. I've got a meeting with the doctors of A&E after lunch and I still haven't read their memo."

The detective took the charts from off her hands and placed them on an empty stretcher. "I'm taking you out for lunch. Why are you dressed like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like that."

"These scrubs? I was in surgery earlier." Jane continued signing charts and controlling medications. "How you managed to get in?"

Sherlock pulled a police badge from inside the pocket, making Jane roll her eyes at him. "You have to stop pickpocketing Greg."

"He annoyed me."

Sherlock watched her signing those charts and quickly glanced at her signature. She still signed as Dr Jane Watson and her white coat had embroidered her name too: Dr Jane Watson. It didn't surprised him. They had already agreed, many years ago when they got married, that she was not taking his name. While for the law she was Jane Watson Holmes, she made herself known as Dr Jane Watson at the hospital she worked at and to everyone else.

"Chinese?"

"We can eat here. The cafeteria has good food. You'll like it." Jane suggested and took a last pile of medical charts. "I just need to sign these."

"Why are you lowering the morphine?" Sherlock asked after watching Jane lowering the morphine dose being given to an old man.

"He signed for no resuscitation. We're giving him sedatives so he doesn't suffer."

"He's dying?"

"Yes."

Sherlock watched Jane instructing the nurses, signing more charts and finally taking the stethoscope off her neck. She also took off her white coat and announced the other doctor in charge she was having her lunch break but if something happened they should call her.

On their way to the hospital cafeteria, Sherlock saw many people, such as doctors, nurses and even patients greeting Jane along the long corridors and even in the lift. The young girl serving them food asked Jane if she could see her later and if it wasn't trouble. The detective found himself having lunch with a woman he had never seen, or maybe, he had never _cared_ to see. Jane smiled to the young girl who seemed to be no more than twenty and saying it was okay and to come before her shift was over. The young girl asked Jane about Sophie and Sherlock listened to his wife saying how good their daughter was doing at school.

"Karen, this is my husband Sherlock."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

Sherlock just gave her a nod.

"Why does she want you to be her doctor? Gynaecology isn't your specialization."

"Some women just don't like male doctors."

"Doctor Watson," a man in his fifties walked to their table and greeted Jane by placing a hand upon her shoulder. "You've missed your appointment yesterday."

Jane sighed. "Ah, yes. Sorry."

"It's no trouble. I can see you today if you want."

"I'll let you know. Thanks, Doctor."

Once the doctor was gone, Sherlock glared at Jane. She ignored him and kept on eating her lunch, aware of those precious minutes she had to eat and that she still had something like five hours ahead and an important meeting with her colleagues before finishing her shift.

"That was your doctor – your gynaecologist."

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Why have you scheduled an appointment?"

"Because that's what women do." She soon decided to change the subject. "So. Anything interesting today beside those eyeballs you were working on when I left?"

"Lestrade called. Seemed promising. Ended up being a total waste of my time."

"Tell me about it."

"A medieval freak found dead. Lestrade's first and _only_ hypothesis was that he'd been tortured and murdered."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and showed Jane the pictures he had taken. He said nothing and gave her no details. However, Jane studied them for some seconds and then shook her head in disbelief.

"Let me guess: death after ordeal by fire?"

"Obviously." Sherlock ate the last of his sandwich. "How do you know?"

"Because I saw a young man today with similar marks on his hands. Said he belonged to a secret group called 'The Knights of The Round Table'." Jane chuckled. "The things young people do these days."

"They are stupid."

Jane laughed. "He was just a medieval fan." She glanced at her watch and sighed. "Have to go."

"Are you working on Friday?"

"No. Why?" She said good bye to some fellow doctors and focused again on her husband. "Got plans?"

"It's our wedding anniversary."

Jane rubbed her forehead. "Yes – sorry, yes. What d'you wanna do?"

"I was thinking about booking us a table."

"Sounds lovely."

"We could go to another place afterwards," Sherlock suggested while walking Jane back to her working place. "If you wish."

Jane smiled and, as they were alone in the lift, she kissed him deeply until the doors were open and more people got in. "Looking forward to it. Ask Mrs Hudson if she can look after Sophie."

"Already did it."

"Had it all planned, didn't you?" Jane laughed. "Thanks for the lunch. I love you."

Sherlock watched his wife disappearing into the crowd of doctors and patients when his phone went off.

It was a link sent by Mycroft.

It was a video, to be precise.

_Did you miss me?_

___Did you miss me?_

_____Did you miss me?_

* * *

"They can't stop it," Mycroft explained. "We have been explained that it behaves like a computer virus. It has been broadcast all over the country and the British Isles."

"You can't trace the source?"

"No. We are dealing with an expert – someone who knows our ways."

"Alistair Johnson?" Sherlock asked. "Moriarty didn't have connections with the secret service."

Mycroft shook his head in agreement. "No, he did not."

"He's dead."

"Maybe he got himself a fan."

"What exactly did Alistair John do?"

Mycroft remembered. Of course he could remember that man. He was a legend in the secret service and among its agents. Everyone knew who Alistair Johnson was and what he had done. He had been once considered the best secret agent in the whole history of the British Secret Service and his powers had once been unlimited. He had a great knowledge when it came to matters of the state and security.

"Alistair Johnson joined the secret service during the Cold War. His language skills allowed him to undergo several missions in Russia and Germany. You can't image the number of terrorist attempts he dismantled." Mycroft chuckled remembering the moment he was just a young man when he was told about Alistair Johnson for the first time. "Once the war was over, the British Government, let's say, upgraded his status. He was only thirty when he started training recruits."

"And what did he teach?"

Mycroft folded his hands upon his lap. "Among languages, he also taught diction, torture and interrogation procedures."

Sherlock snorted.

"His disciples were the best at what they did. Eventually, Johnson was promoted to Associate Chief."

"Where?"

"The MI6."

"And that's why you're so worried. He knows every secret this government keeps from the world. I bet he also knows what button he has to press to blown up the whole country."

Mycroft laughed sarcastically. "There is no such button."

"Isn't it?"

"Insubordination means treason."

"Alistair Johnson is not a mere traitor. He's behind something else."

"Exactly. That is why we need to find him within the next twenty four hours."

"Why?"

"Because there are lives at stake, Sherlock. And not only the Queen's but yours as well."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Everything started when you faked your own death. Alistair Johnson was obviously familiarised with your situation and Moriarty's. He provided me with, shall we say, a location for you to stay at and all the tools and help you needed to dismantle Moriarty's empire." Mycroft looked at his brother. "What? Did you really believe I had all that power to keep you hidden in East Europe? No, dear brother. Alistair also helped from the shadows. He managed to trace the remains of Moriarty's empire long before you did."

"And you are telling me this now?"

"I did not want to hurt your ego."

"My ego?" Sherlock looked at his brother angrily. "My family's in danger and you're telling me this now?"

"There is no need to panic. I have put surveillance on Sophia and Jane." Mycroft reassured his brother. "Alistair Johnson does not want them. He wants you."

"I have always been wanted by mentally-ill criminals. One more wouldn't surprise me."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "The question is: why is Moriarty suddenly involved in all this?"

"They couldn't have been connected."

"Then?"

"He's dead," Sherlock decided it was time to leave. Mycroft's office always made him feel sick.

The detective made the reservations for Friday night. The place was nice – within Sherlock's definition of 'nice'. There were a few tables and they served all sorts of dishes he knew Jane liked. He even asked for the list of wines and they served his and Jane's favourite. When asked, he was told the music was minimal, and that he shouldn't worry because they could even get him a table at one of the restaurant's balconies if he wanted more privacy.

A table at a balcony was it then. Sherlock has never been so fond of eating, but lately he had been putting on weight and, according to Mrs Hudson and his own mother, he looked healthier. Jane said it made him look sexy.

Sherlock blushed when he remembered certain nights with Jane in his arms. Reading a forum on internet, he found out women usually liked to be taken to certain places every now and then and that, sometimes, passionate nights outside the room were the best for a couple married for so long. Nine years of marriage and Sherlock knew neither of them were bored.

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted when his phone went off.

**You have been betrayed, Mr Holmes.**

**Who is it? SH**

******Someone has been keeping things from you. Are you interested in knowing who is your biggest enemy?**

**I don't do riddles. SH**

******I am merely a messenger. I believe it is time for us to meet.**

**Where? SH**

* * *

"Clever," Alistair Johnson said as soon as his visitor stepped in. "I knew you would find me."

The visitor chuckled. "It was easy. You're in the very heart of London though and yet Mycroft, all King's horses and the stupid secret service can't find you."

"They never look in the obvious places."

"Because they can't look from their own arses."

"Naughty, you."

The visitor pulled out a gun and aimed at Johnson. "You won't tell him."

"Won't I?"

"No."

"Will you kill me, dear?"

"Yes. Like I killed Norton and Simmons." A clicking sound was made and Johnson knew his visitor had pulled at the hammer and now he could be shot at any moment now. "No one will ever know it was me."

Alistair Johnson smiled. "You know, I have no real interest in telling him who you really were... James Moriarty's ally." The ex Associate Chief of the MI6 paced around the cold, dusty tunnel long forgotten by the underground company of London. "Your downfall means nothing to me."

"That won't stop me from pulling the trigger."

"No, it will not. But, as my end seems to be close, I may as well explain you how James Moriarty, your dear ex-employer and I see this world and its people." Alistair looked into his visitor's blue eyes. "I have been trained and used by this government for years. I wanted to keep this country safe, not to contribute to wars and slaughter."

"You trained men too."

"I trained them in languages and interrogating processes. Not to listen to presidents and prime ministers' phone conversations. I trained right, intelligent men. Not corrupts and money seeking animals like they are today."

"So what? You've been threatening the security systems as revenge?"

"No," Alistair Johnson smiled. "I did it to catch Mr Holmes' attention."

"Why?"

"Because he ought to know who you are."

"He'll never know. I told you."

Alistair sighed. "I'm rather tired of people lying for the sake of abstract, stupid things. This country lies to its people and to the whole world. Secrets and lies move the world. You," he pointed at his visitor. "You have been lying to the one you care the most for fourteen years. What for?"

The visitor remained silent.

"What for, dear? Tell me why you have killed those men."

"To protect him. He can't know."

"Ha," Alistair smiled. "You could have told him the truth from the beginning. It would have been easier. Now it is too late."

"What d'you mean?"

"Mr Holmes is here."

* * *

"Mr Holmes is here."

Sherlock followed the voices and soon he came across a man standing alone and the end of one of the many secret tunnels of London underground. There were some lights on, but still, Alistair Johnson was in between the shadows. The detective couldn't quite look into his face, but he noticed, as Mycroft said, Johnson was an old man in his early sixties, tall, white haired. He looked like a man who had seen enough. From what Sherlock could see, he had deep wrinkles cutting his skin.

Alistair Johnson was wearing dark trousers, dark as his polished shoes and his expensive long coat. He was in the possession of a dark umbrella as well and Sherlock wondered whether it was a trademark or maybe a code within the people working for the government and the secret service.

"Alistair Johnson."

"Ah, Mr Sherlock Holmes. We finally meet."

There were ten steps separating each other. Sherlock looked at the man standing in front of him but he couldn't read it. He just couldn't.

"Will you shake my hand?"

"What is your connection to James Moriarty?"

"Ah, straight-to-the-point type, are you not?"

"I don't waste my time."

"Time," Alistair repeated, taking three steps forward. "Time flies when you are having such a great time."

Sherlock remained silent.

"James Moriarty and I never met. Not even when your clever brother interrogated him. I was aware of his existence, his ways, yes, but he had never been of my concern."

"Yet you're using his same techniques when it comes to hacking and attacking the secret service you've worked for for more than thirty years."

"I toppled the most powerful of regimes. I got this government assassins and dismantled countless terrorist attacks. They replaced me with some young thing who cannot tell the difference between the United Kingdom and Great Britain," Alistair explained. "Someone who does not know what the Cold War was. They sent me home to enjoy 'my golden years'. I gave them my whole life." Johnson was now angry. "And they kicked me out like a dog."

Sherlock now understood. "Revenge."

"They ought to learn the lesson."

"You've been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. You started making mistakes so the MI6 decided to pension you off." Sherlock tilted his head. "You only have a few months."

"I put my life in danger for the sake of this country and I survived. I fall ill, and I am just given three months."

"Why you killed Norton and Simmons?" Sherlock asked, confused. "They didn't take your place. Moreover, your office trained them but –"

Alistair laughed. "I did not."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I did neither kill Ryan Norton nor Jason Simmons. My office trained them, yes. But they were incompetent. That is why they ended up working for the National Security Council. Computer system engineers," Alistair snorted. "They were just two good hackers who believed their skills could get them into the secret service. As I was explaining the lady before you, I trained right men, not money seeking animals."

The lady? Who was Alistair Johnson talking about? There was a distinctive scent on the air, Sherlock could feel it. It was a mix of floral perfume and disinfectant - hospital disinfectant.

Familiar.

"You know Mr Holmes, there are things you ought to know." Alistair started teasing Sherlock. "This government, while your brother keeps denying it, has a lot of secrets. A war is coming soon, sir. James Moriarty sold this nation the day he got himself connected to these terrorist cells. The key–code you thought never existed is actually real."

"The key–code?"

"Yes," Alistair nodded in agreement. "James Moriarty lied the moment he told you a couple of lines of computer code could never crash the world around our ears." The old man smiled. "Those lines exist, Mr Holmes. And Ryan Norton and Jason Simmons hacked them."

Sherlock looked at Alistair confusedly

"Someone with a very patriotic heart and a strong sense of duty discovered them and then killed them."

"Who?"

"Mr Holmes... your biggest enemy is closer than you believe."

"I said I don't do riddles."

Alistair Johnson took off his glasses and placed them in the inner pocket of his long coat. "Your brother Mycroft kept telling me how good you were, yet, you have been talking to me for," He checked his watch. "Almost ten minutes and still you have not recognised her scent."

"What scent?"

"Hers. That special scent you should be familiarised with by now, Mr Holmes. After so many years..." Alistair finally revealed. "Your enemy's scent. Hers."

Flower scent and disinfectant.

Suddenly, there was a shot sound. Sherlock looked everywhere but it was dark. The lamps in the place only illuminated them, but not the long tunnels around them, not even the one they were in.

The detective watched Alistair Johnson falling to the floor. Someone shot him on his chest. Sherlock immediately looked at the man falling dead: the shot hit Alistair's chest, his heart. There were not rivers of blood on the floor. It was not like in the films when the baddie falls to the floor with a cry and blood spills out the body.

The shot was neat, clever, straight to the heart and Alistair Johnson died immediately.

"Who is it?"

Sherlock heard nothing but the clicking sound of a gun and then another shot.

This time, it was his turn.

Sherlock looked down, to his left shoulder, and watched the blood staining his shirt and his coat. The pain was unbearable. Too much to endure. Too much to hold. When Matthew Morstan shot him, Sherlock had experienced that pain and he, almost ten years later, had forgotten what that pain felt.

Now Sherlock could remember what that pain felt like.

The detective fell to the floor – _backwards_. The blood he was loosing was far too much.

He felt dizzy.

Everything was growing darker.

Sherlock closed his eyes, but still, he could see a shadow moving near Alistair Johnson. Sherlock could distinguish nothing but a dark shadow. Judging why the height and the body shape, it was a woman.

Then everything went dark.


	13. Revealed - Part I

**AN: This chapter is divided into two parts.  
Thanks for reading and following!**

**Apologies for any mistake.**

* * *

**Revealed – Part I  
**

The doctor got into the room where her latest patient was – a young man in his middle forties, who was still lying unconscious after surgery. The bullet came out neatly and even though there had been a great loss of blood, the doctor trusted the patient could go home in a week – maybe ten days.

The surgeons commented, in the middle of the surgery, that the man had been lucky. They joked and said the killer should have loved that man because the bullet barely hurt him.

It had not been a missing shot, but a very studied one, meant to just paralyse the man, they said.

_Of course._

"Blood pressure?"

"One hundred and twenty over seventy."

"Pulse?"

"Forty four. A bit low. Shall I call the cardiologist?"

"No," The female doctor said while she pressed her cold stethoscope against the patient's chest. "He's fine."

"Dr Watson, the medical chart," Sherlock heard a female voice.

"What are you doing? I said he doesn't need the morphine." Jane said angrily to the nurse. "Keep it low."

"But he's just got out of surgery, Dr Watson."

"So? I'm the doctor and you follow my instructions." Was that Jane? "If I say the patient doesn't need the morphine, then he doesn't need the morphine. Give him more sedatives and call me if he wakes up."

The nurse hesitated. "We've already given him the recommended dose."

Jane took the sedatives off the nurse's hand and gestured her to leave. "You can leave."

He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't. The pain was too much to endure. He could barely move and he felt that even when he wanted to, he couldn't. He just couldn't move.

Sherlock felt the door. Someone left the room. But there was someone else with him. He could feel someone else was with him and that someone was very near him... almost touching him.

He tried to open his eyes.

The detective saw her.

Jane was lowering the morphine dose and she was giving him more sedatives. Everything was blurry, but he could still distinguish her. She was wearing blue scrubs – a top and trousers – typical garments used by the surgeons of the hospital she worked at. Her hair was covered by a matching blue surgical cap.

Why was she lowering the morphine? Was was she sedating him?

Jane kept on writing on a chart and looking at the machines connected to him.

He couldn't move. Sherlock chose to close his eyes and sleep.

But the pain was too much to endure.

"It's for your own good." Jane whispered to him softly.

The detective understood. If it hadn't been for the pain on his shoulder and the sedatives that were dragging him to an unwanted land, Sherlock knew he would have opened his eyes and asked Jane why she was doing this to him.

Suddenly, the sedatives and the lack of morphine were finally making some effect because the last thing he could feel was the bitter–sweet taste of Jane's lips on his and her soft scent.

Floral perfume and disinfectant.

_"You don't tell her."_

_He opens his eyes and meets his. Those green eyes. Sherlock knows those eyes.  
_  
_Morstan. Jane's husband.  
_  
_"Sherlock..." He says gently. "You don't tell Jane."  
_  
_Dr Matthew Morstan is standing next to him. Sherlock can feel his cold hands shaking his shoulders slightly. The detective can see those green eyes which once gleamed with happiness the day he and Jane got married. Now those eyes are dark._

_Sherlock doesn't know this man. This man is unknown to him. Suddenly, everything he thought he knew about Dr Matthew Morstan vanishes. _

_Doctor, dog lover, allergic to strawberries, football fan, orphan, avid reader – LIAR._

_Matthew Morstan was a liar.  
_  
_"You hear me? Sherlock?" Matthew looks into Sherlock's eyes. "You don't tell Jane."  
_  
_Sherlock can't even speak. His mouth feels dry and his throat sore. He wants to speak. He wants to tell Morstan he's a liar. Sherlock wants and needs to tell Morstan he's going to tell Jane everything.  
_  
_But he can't.  
_  
_"Look at me and tell me you're not gonna tell her."_

_But there is more. _

_Dr Morstan is bleeding. Sherlock focuses on his face and notice Morstan is pale and there are violet, almost purple bags under his green eyes. His shirt is soaked with blood. He can see the bullet holes left by Magnussen and Mycroft's men. _

_And then, Sherlock understands. Matthew Morstan is dead and he is also there with him._

_Sherlock has not been shot at the chest and Morstan is not threatening him. Morstan is not asking Sherlock not to tell Jane he had shot at him._

_Matthew Morstan is trying to tell him something else._

_"You don't tell her, Sherlock," Morstan whispers to his ear one last time. "if you love Jane, you don't tell her."_

* * *

Sherlock woke up after hearing their voices – familiar, very familiar voices. He heard a young little girl complaining, and two people – his mother and his father, arguing.

He opened his eyes and found his daughter sitting right next to him. She was not wearing her glasses and her long golden hair was a mess. He smiled a bit. His daughter was so beautiful. Even when her long hair was all a mess, Sherlock considered her the most beautiful girl he had ever seen – and she was his daughter. His only child, the only child he would ever have and the only he would ever love. Despite Sophie was no biologically his, every time Sherlock held her hand when they walked on the busy streets of London, he could feel his own blood running through her veins. Sophia was his no matter what.

"Why you're not wearing your glasses?"

"Daddy!" The detective felt Sophia's arms around his neck and her lips on his cheek. "How are you feeling, daddy?"

Despite of the pain, Sherlock allowed Sophie to hug him for as long as she wanted to. He closed his eyes and inhaled her sweet scent. With his good arm, he hugged her tightly against him and whispered to her ear to please get rid of her mother before she started swearing she would turn monstrous when she found out who had shot him and his father too, before he told every nurse in the hospital his wife was hot. This made Sophie giggle, but soon grandma Violet was trying to pull her off her father saying she had to be careful because Sherlock had been shot and he needed to rest.

"Sophie!" Mummy scolded her granddaughter when she saw Sherlock in pain. "You've got to be careful! Your father's just woken up!"

"Don't scold my daughter." Sherlock said to his mother and then his eyes met his father's. "Why are you here? Leave."

Sophie climbed onto the bed and sat next to her father. "Mummy said you were hurt. I was really worried, daddy!"

"I'm fine. It's not the first time someone wants to kill me."

"Who tried to kill you before, daddy?"

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said, trying to forget Matthew Morstan, Jane's first husband and Sophia's biological father had shot him many years ago. "Where's Jane?"

"She's talking to your surgeons," his father explained. "She said she'll come back soon."

Sophia took the detective's hand and gave it a soft squeeze. "Are you in pain, daddy?"

"A bit." Sherlock admitted. "Is there a morphine dispenser?"

The young girl examined the tubes and machines placed next to her father. "Yeah."

"Is it low?"

"I dunno. Yeah, I guess."

"I need you to increase the dose. Pull at the –"

"Young man!" Mummy scolded him. "With your history... Jane said you don't need the morphine."

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had just woken up, he didn't know where his wife was, he still wanted to know what had happened with Alistair Johnson and he had to fight his mother. "Mother, I've been shot. I _need_ morphine."

"What history?" Sophia asked, confused. "Dad, what does grandma mean?"

"Nothing, sweetheart," Sherlock's father reassured his granddaughter. "Violet, leave the boy alone. He's just woken up!"

"Somebody's put a bullet in my boy _again_," the door of the room opened and Jane got in. "and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous. Ah Jane, dear. There you are!"

Jane gave her mother–in–law a tiny smile and walked till she was standing next to Sherlock's bed. "How are you feeling, love?" then, she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Such level of intimacy had never been shown in front of anyone else but their daughter. They had exchanged soft, chaste kisses, hugged and held hands in front of Sophia, but never in front of anyone else. Now Jane had a hand pressed against his bare chest, she kissed his forehead and Sherlock knew, by the look in her eyes, she wanted to kiss him properly.

"I need morphine."

"Can't give you any, sorry love." Jane explained as she checked the chart with Sherlock's medical records and the machines measuring her husband's heart beats and her breathing pattern. "We've already given you the recommended dose for someone with your... history and –"

"What history, mum? Grandma said something like that too." Sophia interrupted her mother.

Jane smiled to Sophia. "We can't give your father much... medicines because it makes his tummy ache, that's all." She lied.

Of course no one could ever tell Sophia about Sherlock's past with drugs. It had been agreed, silently, that no one could ever tell her and that no one will ever do it. The drugs, as Jane's marriage to Matthew Morstan, as the fact Sophia wasn't Sherlock's biological child were to be kept from Sophia. It had never been spoken, but Sherlock's parents, as Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, and everyone who knew Jane Watson and Sherlock Holmes would never speak a word of it to their daughter Sophia.

No one.

Not even them.

"You must be hungry. I'll have a nurse bringing you something to eat."

"I don't want to eat."

"You must. You slept for two days."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't want to."

"_Sherlock_."

"I think we should leave." Sherlock's father announced, gesturing his wife to the door. "Come on, Violet."

Sherlock smiled sarcastically. "Yes, thank you for your visit. Leave now and don't bother me till next Christmas."

Violet smacked Sherlock's right hand. "William Sherlock Scott! We are your parents!"

"We agreed on seeing you on Christmas, New Year, my birthday and Sophia's. Today is none. Leave."

"_William!_"

It has to be said every time Violet was angry at something Sherlock had said or done, she called him by his first name, causing everyone to burst out laughing. It happened all the time and this time it was no exception.

"Don't worry, Violet." Jane gave her parent's–in–law a smile. "Sherlock just needs to eat and sleep. He'll be fine and maybe I can discharge him in a week."

Sherlock pouted. "A week?"

"If you behave."

The Holmes didn't leave before mummy kissed Sherlock's face and patted his good shoulder and asked him to behave and do everything the doctors said was good for him. Then, Mr Holmes told his son he should, once he was fully recovered, go back home and spend Christmas and New Year's with them. Sophia pressed a kiss to her father's cheek and said she was coming back tomorrow and to get well soon.

It wasn't until they were left alone when Jane broke in tears.

"Don't you dare do this to me again!" Jane pressed a kiss to his lips.

Sherlock looked into her blue eyes. They were bloodshot and soon he noticed she had been crying. He had known Jane for almost fourteen years and he had been living with her, uninterruptedly, for ten, and he still couldn't quite find the reason why women cried. He had seen Jane crying a number of times and he still couldn't quite get it. Sherlock had seen his wife crying after her alcoholic and homosexual brother, after his fake death, when he came back, when she got married, when he told her and her then husband Matthew Morstan she was pregnant, then when Sophia was born and finally when she told him everything about Morstan.

Now he couldn't understand why she was crying. He was alive, safe and sound and fine and all he wanted to do was to kiss her properly now that his parents and his daughter were gone.

"You operated on me?"

"No, they wouldn't let me." Jane explained as she examined the dressings covering Sherlock's left shoulder. "They let me watch, though."

"Did it go through?"

"No. They had to take the bullet out." She smiled at him. "You were very strong. Don't worry, you won't have scars. I sewed you up myself."

"Hmm." Sherlock sighed. "You surely took your time and did it all nice. I wanted a scar like yours."

"You don't want one, trust me." Jane sat next to him on his bed and kissed him as deeply as Sherlock was allowed to be kissed. "Happy anniversary, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave Jane a bitter smile and asked her to lie next to him. She did it, carefully, and rested on his right side since he had been shot on the left shoulder. She carefully pressed a kiss to the detective's lips and soon she felt his long arm around her waist, pressing her close against him.

"We missed dinner."

"It's nothing Sherlock."

"I made reservations," Sherlock coughed. "for a hotel room."

Jane beamed. "Did you? Well, once you get better we can go."

"Or we can celebrate now." Sherlock pulled her closer again. "Happy anniversary." He kissed her very deeply and little he cared if he had bad breath or not. He tried to pull her on top, but Jane successfully fought him. "I need you." Sherlock said as he pressed small kisses to her jaw and moved a hand underneath her scrub top. "Please."

"Sherlock Holmes begging?" Jane smiled at him, seductively. "We're not having sex here."

"Why ever not?"

"It's a hospital."

"And?"

"You've just been shot!" Jane shook her head. "And a nurse can come in."

Sherlock looked at the door. "That door has a key."

"Yes. And you need to rest."

"I don't need my left shoulder to make love to you."

She blushed. "You need to sleep. Seriously. There won't be any damage, just try not to move your arm."

"But I need you!"

The doctor shook her head. "You can't even pee on your own."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally surrendered. "That doesn't mean my erectile function has been affected."

Suddenly, the door opened and both husband and wife, both lying together in Sherlock's bed, met Mycroft's eyes. Jane quickly left Sherlock's side and straightened her surgical clothes.

"Ah, I'm sorry to interrupt. Shall I come back later?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered quickly. "Be so kind as to close the door, please."

Jane cleared her throat. "No, Mycroft. I was just leaving," she glared at her husband. "Behave. I'll send in a nurse with food for you. Eat it all, will you."

"Yes."

"Good. Mycroft, don't let him increase the morphine."

"Noted."

Once Jane was gone, Mycroft walked to Sherlock's bed and increased the morphine dosage.

"Thank you." Sherlock breathed relieved.

"You are most welcome. With your history, I believe morphine is not recommended, but I trust you can do with some."

The detective sighed exasperatedly. "Can everyone stop talking about my past drug habits?"

"A chapter in your life most will not be able to forget."

Sherlock glared at his brother. "You didn't catch Alistair Johnson's killer, I presume."

"We are not interested," Mycroft admitted. "the case is closed."

Sherlock snorted. "So I got myself shot at for nothing."

"Do not underestimate yourself, Sherlock. You found Alistair."

"He was within the MI6 underground tunnels." Sarcasm.

"Very near his old offices."

"You never look in the obvious places."

Mycroft faked a pleasant smile. "Alistair Johnson was an ill man and he could no longer handle the amount of work his office had," Mycroft explained. "Now that he is dead, most of our secrets are well kept. The poor man took them all to his grave. Ergo, there is nothing we should worry about."

_"This government, while your brother keeps denying it, has a lot of secrets. A war is coming soon, sir. James Moriarty sold this nation the day he got himself connected to terrorist cells. The key–code you thought never existed is actually real."_

"He said there will be a war."

"Nonsense."

Sherlock sighed when he finally felt the morphine and its effects. "He said Norton and Simmons were in the possession of the key–codes Moriarty had."

"And they are dead."

"And who killed them?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"The person who did it, knows these codes – your precious government is not safe."

"We are..." The politician hesitated. "We are in the middle of a negotiation between our country, its isles and terrorists cells. Nothing you should trouble yourself with."

"And what about my family?"

"Jane and Sophia? I have suggested your wife to send Sophia to country. She will stay with our parents." Mycroft paused and glared at his brother.

"Case closed then? Not very you, brother."

"We will never find their killer. He was trained and there are no traces left to start an investigation with. Whoever did it won't dare to threaten this government. We are prepared now."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"Let politicians deal with politics, Sherlock."

A nurse came in carrying a tray with food that looked like anything but food.

Mycroft smiled to his brother. "Get well soon, dear brother. Bon appetit!"

The detective ate that horrible food and discovered that the nurse seeing him was one of Jane's friends. The nurse, a lady near her fifties, told him he had to eat. Sherlock didn't like her and wondered how Jane could have befriended her: she was not delicate, she did everything mechanically, and, at the top of the list, she lowered the morphine dosage and gave him more sedatives.

"What are they for?"

"Dr Watson's strict orders," the nurse explained. "You need to sleep, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock watched the nurse leaving and finally, his eyes focused on the flowers left on his bedside. They were colourful and he knew those were his daughter's. There were also two 'get better soon' cards from Molly and Lestrade. Greg's was signed by everyone in the Yard, even Sally and Anderson.

The detective rubbed his eyes and noticed he was not wearing his wedding ring, but it was on his bedside, next to the flowers and next to the card.

_"Mr Holmes... your biggest enemy is closer than you believe."_

_"I said I don't do riddles."_

_"Your brother Mycroft kept telling me how good you were, yet, you have been talking to me for almost ten minutes and still you have not recognised her scent."_

_"What scent?"_

_"Hers." Alistair finally revealed. "Your enemy's scent."_

_Floral perfume and disinfectant._

Sherlock started remembering. Nothing was clear, _yet_. He could only remember images, fragments of his and Alistair Johnson's meeting. Everything was dark and the tunnels seemed to be endless. But they weren't. Johnson had white hair. He was carrying an umbrella like Mycroft's. He said things, Sherlock remembered.

But what?

_"Hers."_

Hers?

_"Your enemy's scent."_

Sherlock knew that scent. Of course he knew it. Jane had always wore that floral perfume for years and –

Disinfectant. Hospitals used disinfectant everywhere: to clean the floors, the windows, everything. Sherlock took a deep breath and felt that awful scent on the sheets of his bed.

Floral scent and disinfectant. That strange mixture he usually found in Jane's clothes.

No.

Sherlock remembered that day he visited Jane, before he went to the restaurant and the hotel and made reservations to spend their anniversary together.

_"Why are you lowering the morphine?" Sherlock asked after watching Jane lowering the morphine dose being given to an old man._

_"He signed for no resuscitation. We're giving him sedatives so he doesn't suffer."_

_"He's dying?"_

_"Yes."_

And he could also remember the moment he tried to open his eyes, after the surgery. Jane was there and she was wearing surgical clothes. She was with that nurse he heard Jane scolding and they were checking on him. The nurse kept telling Jane his pulse was too low and that they should call the cardiologist. The nurse also had said the morphine was too low and Jane kept telling the nurse he had to be given sedatives, that they had to keep him sleeping no matter what.

_"What are you doing? I said he doesn't need the morphine. Keep it low."_

_"But he's just got out of surgery, Dr Watson."_

_"So? I'm the doctor and you follow my instructions. If I say the patient doesn't need the morphine, then he doesn't need the morphine. Give him more sedatives and call me if he wakes up."_

Jane lowered the morphine dose. Jane kept on giving him more sedatives. Everything was blurry, but he could still distinguish her.

_"It's for your own good."  
_

Immediately, he felt the effects of the sedatives he had been given ever since he has been shot at. The sedatives were meant to cause him short–term amnesia. For some reason, Jane wanted him to forget everything that had happened at the secret tunnels of the MI6.

Why?

Because she was the killer.

She had lied to him.

She shot at him.

Woman, friend, lover, wife, mother, jumper lover, tea maniac, doctor, surgeon, had no parents, one sibling, married to him, mother of his daughter – _LIAR_.

Sherlock couldn't fight it any more and fell asleep after the effects of the sedatives, remembering what he always said:

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.


	14. Revealed - Part II

**Revealed – Part II**

"Hey." Jane said as soon as she got into Sherlock's room. She closed the door behind her back and smiled at him sweetly. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock sighed. "Tired."

"It's normal. You need to sleep." Jane pressed a kiss to his forehead and sat next to him on a chair. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Good. I know you don't like it and that the food here is crap, but if you wanna go home soon we need you to collaborate with us, okay?"

"Okay."

Jane looked at the new flowers on Sherlock's bedside and smiled. "Sophie brought them for you."

"When did she come?"

"A couple of hours ago. She didn't want to wake you." Jane handed Sherlock a white envelope with Sherlock's name written on it. The detective examined it and smiled a bit at the sight of his daughter's handwriting. "I... I think it'll better if Sophie stays with your parents for a couple of days. I've talked to Mycroft and he agreed on taking her. She's travelling tomorrow." Jane commented while she looked at the medical charts, especially, at the notes every nurse seeing Sherlock had written, where they marked the sedatives, the morphine and the medicines given to him during the day. "Okay?"

Sherlock merely nodded and placed the letter on his bedside. He was reading it later. He had always loved Sophia's letters. She wrote him letters for his birthdays, for Christmas, and every time he was on a case that took him far from Baker Street. Once Sherlock went to Scotland and he received a new letter every day. At the end, and once he had the case all wrapped up, he got twelve letters and he loved every single one of them. Sophia always wrote him about Jane, about Mrs Hudson and her flowers, about her classmates, about the teacher who was insufferable and she always mentioned how much she missed him.

"Shift just finished. I'll go now and help her packing. Need anything else?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

She checked on the bags on the pole connected to his IV lines. "I'll give you some more sedatives."

"I need morphine." Sherlock said, his voice sore. He turned his head and saw Jane injecting more sedatives to him. "I've been sedated ever since I got out of surgery."

Jane gave him a weak smile. "Sorry love, can't give you any."

"Why?"

"You know why, Sherlock."

Ah. Sherlock often wondered why was it that every single member of his family, minus Sophia obviously, had to mention, and, bring back his past habits, such as his drug abuse. He was well aware of what he had consumed, injected and smoked. He didn't need to be told about his past. He didn't spend his life telling his mother about her dropping everything for him and Mycroft. He didn't spend his days telling his father he could have been something more than a mere boring historian. He didn't remind Mycroft about his weight problems and he didn't remind Jane about the time she had a limp and suffered from PTSD.

"Dr Michaels will come and see you in a couple of hours and the nurse who'll check on you knows me, so if you need me tell her and she'll call me." She noticed Sherlock was too quiet. "Hey, you okay?

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"I love you." Jane pressed a kiss to his lips. "Get some sleep, okay? I'll come tomorrow first thing in the morning."

Soon after she left his room and closed the door, Sherlock pulled at the cannula and the machines connected to him that measured his heartbeats and his breathing pattern and found a shot with some morphine that Mycroft had left for him under his pillow.

There was a killer he ought to catch.

* * *

Jane did her rounds, a typical procedure she was meant to do every time before finishing her shifts. She checked every single one of her patients were okay. She talked to nurses and doctors and discussed what was the best for the patients. She also talked to their families and gave them good and, sometimes, bad news. It was always difficult to go back home after telling a son or a daughter their father or mother was dying. But it was good to go back home after telling someone the one they hold dear is safe, healthy.

Sherlock had at least one more week in hospital before he could be discharged and sent home. Now that there was nothing else to be worried about, or that's what Mycroft said, Jane was one hundred percent sure they could resume their lives. Sherlock could take more cases, she could go on working at the hospital and Sophie could go back to school.

Maybe they could go out and have dinner as Sherlock had originally planned for their anniversary. Maybe they could go and get Sophie a dog. She had been insisting ever since Mrs Hudson said they could get any pet they wanted. Firstly, Sophia had wanted a cat, but Sherlock was allergic. Then, she said she wanted a horse, but Sophie knew she could never have one simply because no one in London keeps a horse in their flat. Finally, she said she wanted a bulldog and that she wanted to name it Gladstone, like the dog in those stories Sherlock used to read to her when she was little.

The doctor hailed a cab and got inside, not knowing what was to happen. That night in which Jane was meant to help her daughter packing, she would end up seeing the one she loved and held most dear taking her _life_.

"221 Baker Street –"

Jane got inside the cab, not knowing that the one inside was the one she had tried to protect for almost fifteen years. And she was to face her death sentence. Had she known Sherlock was in there, she wouldn't have got into that cab. Instead, she would have never faced the truth. Maybe she would have escaped. Or maybe not. She loved Sherlock Holmes far too much to conceive a life without him.

She loved Sherlock far too much to watch him suffer.

Because when Jane got into the cab, she found Sherlock Holmes was inside. Billy, Sherlock's protégé, was driving the cab and he secured all the doors. There was no way Jane could escape. There was no way Jane could escape Sherlock and the gun he was holding and aiming at her.

Had they known it was the last time they were seeing each other, they would have started it all differently. For Sherlock, he was holding a gun and it was loaded. He was aiming at Jane. His index finger was on the trigger. And Jane didn't move. She didn't hesitate. She didn't try to escape. She sat across Sherlock and decided it was time to face all her faults, all her lies, all her truths and her final trial.

Because if looking after Sherlock Holmes and protecting him from his own demons was wrong – then she was guilty.

The car was taking Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson to their last destination and to the last place they would be together.

Jane took a deep breath and stared into Sherlock's piercing grey eyes all the way to Baker Street.

* * *

Walking up the stairs, both Jane and Sherlock heard those familiar voices; their daughter and Mrs Hudson. Sophia was complaining and saying she didn't like packing. Mrs Hudson was telling her to pack more socks because you never know when you'll need them.

Jane didn't smile as she always did when coming back home and hearing her daughter's voice. Jane was in love with that sweet voice. She loved hearing that sweet, childish voice and compare it with Sherlock's, her great love. But tonight was the last night Jane was to hear certain voices and, had she known this, she would have acted differently. She would have asked her daughter to sing to her all those lullabies she remembered Sherlock had sung to her.

But instead, Jane walked the seventeen steps that took her to the place she called 'home' without looking back at the man who was closely behind her, pressing a gun to her back, and telling her any false move she did, he was killing her.

Silent. Sherlock was silent. He had pronounced no word ever since Jane got into that cab and where both met again. The detective knew that he didn't need to say a word. Words seemed superfluous now.

Now.

Things were to change later.

He was not firing. The gun wasn't for show either. But it was loaded, Sherlock had pulled at the safe and his index finger was on the trigger. Sherlock didn't know exactly _why_ he needed the gun, but he was sure he needed it. He knew Jane wouldn't attempt escaping. Still, he pressed the gun against her back and guided her to the place they had called 'home' for almost ten years.

That same place where they had lived as friends, then as parents of Jane's daughter and then as husband and wife was the same place where the final trial was to take place. That place where Jane gave him her daughter, where Jane accepted his proposal, where Jane said she loved him and where they loved each other so passionately was the very same place where they were to see each other for the last time.

The place where he had been lied to for so long was also the place where Sherlock was finally going to be told the truth.

Or that's what he thought.

"Sherlock! Oh, good gracious," Mrs Hudson hurried to him. "You escaped from hospital again, didn't you. God!"

The landlady met Sherlock and Jane's faces. Jane was not crying and she kept staring at the floor. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to break in tears at any moment. The detective was dressed, but there were bloodstains on his white and expensive shirt. Sherlock was pale, and he had bag under his eyes. His full lips were white. He looked ill, as if he had lost a lot of weight.

"What is going on? Jane?"

"Mum?" Sophie looked at her mother and then at her father. "Dad? Dad, what are you doing here?" She quickly ran to him and tried to hug him placing her short arms around his middle, but Sherlock stepped back and rejected her touch.

"Sophia, go downstairs with Mrs Hudson."

"But dad –"

"Downstairs!" Sherlock bellowed angrily. "Go downstairs and stay there. Can't you do as you're told?"

Sophie broke in tears and ran downstairs, hurt. Sherlock had never talked to her like that. She had never been yelled at because her parents never had reasons to do it. But Sherlock's deep voice scared her and Jane felt the need to go and hold her daughter in her arms and tell her everything was going to be all right. But she couldn't. What looked like Sherlock pressing a hand to the small of her back, like a husband would do, was actually Sherlock pointing a gun at her.

"Are you having a domestic?"

"Mrs Hudson, please. Please, _please_ leave us alone." Jane almost begged, her eyes not meeting hers, not even Sherlock's.

"Jane –"

"Shut up and leave!" The detective bellowed.

The landlady wasn't even out of earshot when Sherlock kicked the door of their flat shut. "Who are you?"

Jane raised her gaze and met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's angry, furious eyes. The doctor had never seen Sherlock so angry. She had never been looked at as he was looking at her now. She could almost affirm, and she wouldn't be wrong, that Sherlock was looking at her with hatred.

He was hating her now.

"Tell me who you are." Sherlock said quietly, yet firmly. "Don't lie to me any more."

"I'm Jane Watson."

Sherlock dragged a chair and placed it across his. He yanked Jane's comfy armchair and, as he was not measuring his own movements and his own force, the armchair fell to the floor but little he cared. The pulled the other chair there and gestured Jane to sit there.

"Sit."

"Sherlock –"

"Here is where they sit," Sherlock said, clenching his teeth between the physical, the emotional pain, and the anger he was experiencing. "and where they tell us their stories and we chose if we want them or not. You know the drill. You will tell me the truth and I'll choose if I want you or not."

Jane lowered her gaze. She didn't sit immediately, but Sherlock was the one who pulled at her arm and almost threw her to the chair.

The chair, which was usually used by their clients, by those people who came with their stories of missing cats, sometimes their cheating husbands and wives, their stolen things… now that chair was hers. She was a client and she was bound to tell Sherlock her story – the only story she knew and the detective himself had to decide whether he wanted her or not.

Almost ten years had happened since that night when Jane and Sherlock together confronted Matthew Morstan together. That night Jane felt herself falling to pieces. When remembering that awful day, Jane felt as if it had been a bad dream – a nightmare. After that night, and for ten years, she had built her life again on what she believed were safe and strong foundations. Now, ten years later, Jane was falling to pieces again.

Ten years later Sherlock was occupying Jane's place. Now he was experiencing what she felt. Now he was feeling what is to be lied to for so long. For ten years he had shared a bed, raised a daughter, loved and practically became one with that woman, with Jane Watson.

With a _liar_.

Now, ten years later, Sherlock was finally discovering who the woman he was married to was. For ten years, the same woman he had known for more than a decade, for almost fifteen years, the woman he considered was his best friend and the only person he could ever love had been nothing else but a _liar_.

Jane Watson had lied to him for more than ten years.

Or that's what he thought.

And the worst thing here wasn't his hurt pride or his ego and his cleverness being insulted. The worst thing here was that he hated her like he had never hated anyone before. The worst thing here wasn't being lied to the face, but the fact Sherlock had been deceived by the woman he thought would never hurt him. Jane had hurt him in one of the most unforgivable ways she could have ever hurt him. The shot – Sherlock didn't care. It was only physical pain what he was enduring. But this... she had been lying to him for so long he felt everything they had, what they still have and everything they could have in their future just vanished. Just like that.

Not looking away from her, not even for a second, Sherlock sat on his armchair, grimacing with pain. It was unbearable. But he couldn't tell what was worst: the physical or the emotional pain. The detective couldn't tell whether his shoulder or his broken heart were causing him this pain.

Tears clouded his eyes. And the detective didn't care the moment he closed his eyes and the tears rolled down his pale cheeks. He didn't care. He looked into Jane's eyes and silently cried. But she didn't. Jane held his gaze, but she didn't cry.

Jane knew time was vital. They had less than fifteen minutes before Sherlock collapsed. They had little time for all the things they had to say. Jane herself had little time to keep Sherlock from himself. Had she known this was coming, she would have taken precautions. Both would have taken precautions. But Sherlock looked so well, his old self.

Now dark Sherlock was back and there was little Jane could do to stop another attack.

"Start from the beginning and –" the detective pressed his hand to his wounded shoulder, somehow trying to make the pain lessen. "Don't' –"

"Sherlock—"

Sherlock rejected her touch. "Don't you _dare_ to lie to me any more because I'll..." He held the gun tightly. "I swear _on my daughter_ I'll kill you."

Jane lowered her gaze and remembered. She remember that lonely woman she used to be after coming back from the war. A broken doctor with no family, no friends, no future. Jane remember who she was when she met the great detective Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock. Ha. She would have never suspected his name was William. William Sherlock Scott, ha. Such mundane names, yet they suited her husband so well. Jane remembered Sherlock confessing her his first and third name were his heavy cross to bear.

Jane remembered and could perfectly recall the woman she was when she met Sherlock Holmes. She was alone, she had no friends and no hope. A bullet in her head seemed the option, she once thought. She had no reason to live, no one to fight for. And then, Sherlock Holmes came.

Sherlock gave her her life back. She smiled with him. She loved preparing tea for him. Jane enjoyed watching him sulking and she loved fighting against him every time she insisted he ought to eat and sleep more. Sherlock was a child trapped in a big body. Sherlock was, to Jane, a small child she ought to take care of and protect from the evil in the world.

After all, that's all she had done, right?

"You know who I am, Sherlock." Jane said softly, his eyes on him all the while. "I'm your wife."

Sherlock frowned. "You're my _lying_ wife."

"Please Sherlock, come back."

_Come back_. Such words Jane remembered saying so many times. Come back had always helped. Sherlock always came back. Every time this happened, Jane remembered cuddling Sherlock as if he were a small child and pressing him against her chest. This had a soothing effect and it always helped. But this time she could not cuddle him, nor whisper soothing words and ask him, again, and again, and again, to please come back.

Maybe this time Sherlock wasn't coming back.

The detective hear those words. They were familiar. Strangely, he tasted the words himself and felt the need of curling himself against Jane and press his head against her chest, there, between her breasts, as if he were a small child and cry. Why he felt this? He was holding a gun, he was aiming at Jane and he was crying. He was asking for a truth he had always known but chose to forget.

"Come back," Sherlock repeated.

And then, he was there.

Moriarty.

He, the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen was there, behind Jane, in their kitchen. James Moriarty was alive. Safe and sound and alive and there he was, in their kitchen, smiling. He was wearing a blue suit, dark blue. He had his hands inside his pockets and he was smiling at him.

Only at him.

Macabre.

"Sherlock, please –"

"What is he doing here?"

Jane frowned. "Who?"

She wished this was a dream, but she knew it wasn't. Jane was well aware there was no one else beside them in their flat. Sophia was downstairs with Mrs Hudson. There were only four souls within the building and there was no on else beside them.

But then, Sherlock saw him again.

Jane knew Sherlock was not meant to see him, of course not. But Jane didn't need to be told who was there, behind her. Of course it was him. James Moriarty never died. She knew it. How could she not know it?

But for almost fourteen years she believed him dead.

Of course James Moriarty was dead.

Because he had never been alive.

"He's dead!" Sherlock pointed at the kitchen. "He's dead! _You_'re dead!"

Jane turned and looked behind her, to the kitchen, but there was no one. On the table there were two empty mugs, two tea bags, a sponge cake she knew Mrs Hudson had baked for Sophia, a pile of clothes that belonged to her daughter and her textbooks and pencils.

There was no one in their kitchen because the only ones there were them.

And then, Jane understood. Of course. There is a saying – nothing lasts forever – which Jane always believed to be false. She believed love lasts forever. She believed families last forever. Lots of things last forever. The love she felt for Sherlock, Jane knew, would last forever because she loved him no matter what. It never mattered whether Sherlock liked to eat or sleep, or if he kept toes in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave. She knew she would always love him no matter what.

No matter what medicines they gave him, he was lost again. No matter how many times she had to remind Sherlock of his condition, she still loved him. Jane had seen the worst of Sherlock and she had helped him to go through that hell. When Sherlock was his old self, she was still there.

Because she loved him.

The doctor thought that ten years together, without attacks, would last forever. Almost. She got used to this Sherlock loving her, loving her daughter, having a life together, being that man she loved. Jane had always been alert for she knew this could happen one day. Ten years of marriage and more than ten years without Sherlock suffering was a record and she was determined to do anything within her power to maintain that.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Sherlock wasn't supposed to see Moriarty again.

Dark Sherlock was back again and Jane feared, and knew, he would have to leave her again for only God knows how long. Last time, it took Sherlock almost three years to be his old self again. This time, when Jane needed him more than ever, Sherlock was ill again.

"Sherlock, he's not here."

"He's there!" Sherlock bellowed angrily and aimed his gun to Moriarty's figure. "You're his ally. You've _always_ been." Jane took a step near, but Sherlock now aimed his gun at her. "You lied to me." He said quietly, yet very dangerously. "You were his ally."

"Sherlock –"

"One more step and I kill you."

Jane raised both hands to the air and walked two steps backwards. "It's okay, Sherlock."

"You knew who he was from the beginning," Sherlock almost barked. "You gave me to him – you were Moriarty's right hand man."

"Sherlock, please!" Jane begged him helplessly. "Come back."

"Who are you?" He asked quietly, but when he got no reply, he pulled at the hammer of the gun and his index finger was on the trigger. "_ANSWER ME!_"

Jane was against the wall, literally. "I'm your wife! Sherlock please -"

"My _lying_ wife." Sherlock corrected her. "You've lied to me... always. Why?"

"Sherlock, love, please remember..." She begged him with tears in her eyes. "Sherlock... Moriarty is not here!"

Sherlock glared at her. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"What?" Jane gasped, feeling herself dying.

Moriarty walked into the living room and smiled at Jane. "Oh, kill her will you. It'll make it all better. Funnier, I daresay."

"You step back!" Sherlock bellowed to him.

"Oh, touchy," Moriarty sang as he made his way next to Sherlock. "That's how the great Sherlock Holmes receives his _favourite_ guest?"

"How can you be alive?" The detective aimed his gun at Jim. "You shot your brains out. I saw it."

"I'm so disappointed in you, Sherlock," The criminal mastermind shook his head, disapprovingly. "You're so disappointing. Always have been, you."

"_ANSWER ME!_"

"I _never_ died," Moriarty finally answered as he walked past Jane and headed to the window behind Sherlock. "I've always been..." Moriarty stood in front of Sherlock and pressed the pad of his index finger on the detective's forehead. "Here." Sherlock stepped back and looked at Jim surprised. "And one thing I tell you: I'll always, _always_ live here with you."

"What?"

Jane watched her husband talking to no one, aiming a gun at no one and stepping back from no one. Sherlock was staring into the space and aiming his gun at no one.

Jane understood. "Sherlock, love, please. Moriarty is not real!"

"That night at the pool… that wasn't semtex what you had tied to your chest. Those red dots weren't snipers…" Sherlock looked back at Jane. "You weren't his hostage."

"No." Jane looked into his piercing eyes the moment Sherlock aimed his gun at her again. "No Sherlock, you know Moriarty's not real!"

"Do you really think I'm going to keep on believing your lies?"

"Moriarty is not real!"

"I don't know who you are." Sherlock repeated _again_.

"I'm your wife."

"My _lying_ wife." The detective repeated once again.

"Sherlock… please calm down. Everything I did was to protect you."

"You killed three men."

"What?" Jane asked, surprised. "What are you talking about?"

"You killed the cabbie," Sherlock said, remembering the cabbie who killed his victims and made all those murders look like suicides. "Among Ryan Norton, Jason Simmons and Alistair Johnson. You killed them because they knew who you are."

Jane started crying.

Moriarty shook his head. "She's lying. Why don't you kill her just now?"

"Matthew Morstan didn't kill Magnussen for what he had on him only," Sherlock deduced. "He also died for what Magnussed had on you. You couldn't forgive him for all the lies he said," Sherlock said as more tears clouded his eyes. "But you are a liar just like he was."

"What are you talking about? No –"

"She's lying to you." Moriarty commented.

"He's right," Sherlock said and aimed his gun to Jane. "You're a liar."

"Love, please, remember. Moriarty is not real. Don't you remember what the doctors said?"

"No! No... you're trying to make me think I'm crazy but I'm not –"

"Sherlock, you've got to believe me!" Jane said, finally falling to the floor when she felt she had no more strength.

Moriarty smiled again. "She's lying, Sherlock... your wife is a liar..."

Sherlock shook his head. "You're a liar."

"Sherlock... you've got _schizophrenia_." Jane gasped and sighed relieved when she heard the ambulance near and their lights on the windows. "Moriarty is not real. He's the product of your imagination. He never kidnapped me. There was no pool. You never faked your own death."

"What?"

"You were found alone at Bart's rooftop – you tried to kill yourself." Jane explained.

Suddenly, everything fell into its place.

_"I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. My mind invented him. I'm a stupid schizophrenic."_

_"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

_"You could."_

_"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

_"Sherlock please, get down!"_

_"This phone call it's... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note when?"_

_"I can't stand it any more, Jane. The hallucinations... I hear voices all the time. I can't do it any more."_

Sherlock remembered Jane pulling him from the edge of Bart's rooftop. He almost jumped, of course. He could recall her crying, hugging him tightly, asking him not to ever do it again because she couldn't live without him.

"We had to hospitalise you, remember?"

Of course he could remember the nurses, Mycroft, Mummy and Father visiting him. He remembered Jane going to see him, giving him flowers, telling him how lovely Mrs Hudson's knittings were and about her new boyfriend Matthew Morstan, a doctor she had met recently. The detective remembered holding Jane's hand all the time when she visited him. They walked for long periods around that green park. There was a young nurse who helped him combing his hair. She also gave him some perfume, which she said was her husband's, so he would smell nice for the lovely woman who always visited him. That was Jane. The one who once kissed him before leaving was Jane. She apologised. She said she wanted him to meet her boyfriend.

Sherlock also remembered the doctors asking him who James Moriarty was and what he had done. Sherlock recalled those talks with his psychiatrist. And he also recalled being told there was no Moriarty. Never had been. Moriarty had never existed. James Moriarty had always been a mere product of his own imagination. And Sherlock had given him his own physical appearance, his own voice, his own criminal features.

Sherlock Holmes created James Moriarty for his own purposes.

Of course.

"He doesn't exist," Sherlock whispered. He dropped the gun and fell to the floor next to Jane. "He's the product of my own imagination. He doesn't exist." He let himself being cuddled. Jane curled her fragile arms around him and he pressed his head against her chest.

"When you accepted it you came back." Jane said between tears. "D'you remember?"

"Yes."

"Can you remember my wedding to Matthew?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded and pressed a small kiss to the Jane's chest, to her skin, in the middle of her breasts as he raised his head to look into her eyes. "I gave a speech."

Jane looked into his eyes and smiled sweetly at him. "The best speech I've heard. You also played the violin."

"I told you you were pregnant." Jane nodded. "You were expecting Sophie."

"Hmm." She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Do you remember when Sophie was born?" Sherlock nodded against her chest. "You forgot the bag."

"I was there."

"Yes."

"When she was born... I was there."

"Yes."

"You bled."

"Yes, Sherlock. All women bleed when they have babies."

Sherlock pressed another kiss to her chest. "Then we got married."

"Yes." Jane started crying when she felt the pain inside her. "And your mummy was very angry when we told her."

"She wanted to come to our wedding."

The detective tried to focus on her, but, instead, his eyes were on the shadowy figure standing behind Jane. It was James Moriarty. And he was smiling at him, laughing.

But only Sherlock could hear him.

Only Sherlock could see him.

"I can see him," Sherlock said hoarsely. "I can hear him too."

Jane started rubbing his back softly and pressing kisses to his forehead. "Remember he's not real. Okay, love? He's not real."

"How can he not be real? I can _see_ him."

"I know you can see him," Jane whispered to him. "You trust me, right?" Sherlock nodded. "You'll always see him, Sherlock. That's because you're ill. You've got schizophrenia. You understand?"

"Yes."

"He'll always hunt you. But I'll always, _always_ be here with you, okay? I'll protect you. He can't harm you."

Sherlock nodded and kissed her. Jane cupped his face and kissed him as deep as she could in their position. Sherlock was back, but still, she couldn't tell for how long he would stay with her.

She wished she could cure him. Jane wished to have the powers to scare those monsters away, to take that man Sherlock created and that she knew would always hunt him. She knew Sherlock could hear voices, see people she couldn't because they were in his mind. But one thing she knew and it was that she was never going to leave him alone.

Jane would always protect him. Always.

Because she loved him.

When they broke apart, Jane looked into his eyes and smiled a bit. "I'm pregnant."

A child. He was having a child. The detective pressed his hand softly against Jane's still flat belly and pictured a baby. His baby. Their baby. Sherlock was going to be a father and he wasn't sure of what he felt. He wasn't even sure of how he _should_ feel.

"Are you going to keep it?"

For a moment, Jane looked into his eyes and smiled. Because that was all she could do. Smile. "Of course. It's our baby. What d'you think it's gonna be?"

Sherlock rested his head against her chest and silently cried. He could feel her crying too. But her heartbeats made him feel calm, in peace. Moriarty's shadow vanished. Sherlock could no longer hear his laughter.

"It'll be a boy."

"A boy, huh?" Jane pressed a last kiss to his forehead and pressed him closer against her. "I love you, Sherlock."

"My shoulder hurts."

"I know. You're gonna be okay, love. Hold on."

There was Moriarty and Alistair Johnson smiling at him. They were standing together. Moriarty smiled and laughed. He mocked him. Jim pointed at him and laughed. Alistair laughed too and Sherlock felt the need of firing his gun and kill them but he knew they were not real. They were not there. The only ones there were Jane and himself.

James Moriarty and Alistair Johnson were just two people he created. He had never met that old man in the deep of the London underground. He knew he had been shot because someone tried to take his wallet and he fought the thief, but Sherlock didn't know the thief had a gun.

And then, when Sherlock thought he was dying, they heard people on the stairs and then two paramedics got into the flat.

"They said here's been a shooting?" One of them asked.

"Yes," Jane got to her feet and took her stethoscope from inside her jacket. She pressed it against Sherlock's chest. "It was three days ago, but he needs morphine. Yes, I'm a doctor." She took hold of the detective's wrist and checked his pulse while the paramedics got ready to carry Sherlock downstairs to the ambulance. "Good pulse. Suspected internal bleeding. He's schizophrenic."

One of the paramedics started instructing Sherlock to lie on the stretcher and stay still. During the whole process, the detective didn't meet Jane's eyes.

"They said there was a woman too?"

Jane finally gave and collapsed on Sherlock's chair. She gasped and closed her eyes tightly when she felt a sharp pain across her lower abdomen. "That's me." Jane opened her eyes and realised her jeans were bloodstained. "Suspected miscarriage. It's done I think." She finally broke in tears the moment she realised it she was losing hers and Sherlock's baby. "High blood pressure also. I'll need an IV with glucose solution."

Sherlock almost jumped off the stretcher. He tried to pull at the oxygen mask he had, but the paramedic kept pressing it against his face. The detective knew he needed that oxygen and he also knew he was going to have another cardiac arrest soon if he didn't cooperate and let the paramedics do their job but he just needed to be there. He tried to make some eye contact with Jane since he had no voice. Sherlock tried to speak, but he couldn't. Jane had her eyes close and one of the paramedics was taking her blood pressure.

Soon everything was blurry.

The paramedic was pressing his own stethoscope against her chest and tried to take her pulse. "Low. We'll have to call another ambulance. How far along you are?"

"Five weeks I think. Take him first," Jane instructed the paramedics. "He has ten minutes or you'll have to defibrillate."

The two paramedics took him downstairs. Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson frenetically asking what was happening, Sophia pulling at his clothes and calling his name and the paramedics saying another ambulance was on its way.

The last thing he saw was Jane, her bloodstained jeans and her crying face when everything went dark.


	15. Forever haunted

**AN: This is the end. There is going to be a epilogue in a couple of days.**

**Apologies for any mistake.**

* * *

**Forever haunted  
**

"You like it?" the nurse let Sherlock look himself in a mirror while she gave him the last touches.

The detective looked at himself on the mirror. His curls were perfectly defined. The product the nurse insisted he tried on was really good. "Yes." Then, his eyes met the nurse's face who was standing behind him, holding a comb and smiling at him as if he were her fashion project. "Thank you."

"Any time. You know you're my favourite guy here." The nurse winked at him and finally handed him his dark jacket. "Now, this suit was a nightmare. Took me hours to iron it. Who's coming today?"

"My daughter."

"Ah," The nurse patted his back as Sherlock took a last look at the mirror. "She's lovely, Sherlock. Got your eyes, that young thing."

Sherlock smiled too. "She's got her mother's eyes."

"No one else' coming today?" The nurse asked him while she checked Sherlock had taken all his medication.

"No."

"And what about that guy?"

"Who?"

"You know who." The nurse gave him a seductive smile. "The silver fox."

Sherlock frowned.

The young nurse rolled her eyes. "The cop."

"Lestrade?" Sherlock looked at her. "You're married. And pregnant."

"Hey! I can use my eyes and see the men around me, can't I?"

Sherlock watched the young nurse who's been with him for the last months. She was very young, in her late twenties and a recent graduated nurse. Sherlock remembered the first time he saw her. Nancy kept smiling at him and talking about her husband who apparently was a doctor and about her nieces and nephews. She was insufferable at the beginning, but Sherlock started liking her. Nancy was clever and she had been his fan when she was a teenager. She confessed him she had a crush on him too, and that she used to keep a scrapbook where she stuck pictures and articles that she found on the newspapers.

It wasn't creepy. She remembered his old cases, the public ones, and she discussed them with him. Nancy was good company. She always helped him to look his best every time someone visited. She even ironed his suits and shirts.

Mummy and Mrs Hudson grew very fond of her. Both old ladies discussed recipes and knitting with Nancy every time they visited. Sherlock once asked Nancy why she would be interested in knitting. Nancy replied, while she checked on his blood pressure, some months ago, that she was interested because she wanted to knit things for her baby herself.

Sherlock was the very first one to know Nancy was pregnant. She told him first because she still didn't know how her husband would react. They had just got married and her husband, like herself, had just graduated and they were still living at an hideous flat in the suburbs of London and they didn't have enough money to welcome a baby. The detective himself warned Nancy he wasn't good at giving advice, but one thing he could tell her: without knowing her husband, he was sure he would be very happy and that he would, of course, want the baby no matter if they had the money or not.

The following day Nancy brought Sherlock chocolates and told him her husband was indeed very happy.

Months passed by and now Nancy was five months pregnant and she had a little baby bump. Her condition restricted her activities and she was only allowed to work with the non-violent patients and those were a few. Sherlock was among them.

The detective was Nancy's favourite patient. Sherlock, and a very young girl called Sammy.

Sherlock and Sammy met the day Sherlock was allowed to walk the gardens alone. There is where he found, sitting on a bench alone, a young girl reading a book about chemistry. Sammy had long, golden hair and blue eyes. Very big, bright eyes. Sammy wasn't even twenty and she reminded him of his daughter, Sophia. After all, he was old enough to be Sammy's father and Sammy was young enough to be his daughter.

"It's a boy." Sherlock told Nancy.

"The doctor said it was a girl."

"It's a boy."

Nancy smiled. "I'm having an ultrasound done tomorrow. Will ask the doctor to check again."

"William Sherlock Scott. If you're looking for baby names."

"I'll think about it!" Nancy finally closed the door of Sherlock's room and hooked her arm with his. "I'll stay with Sammy so you can have a moment with your daughter."

Sherlock's eager eyes were on the windows. He tried looking for his daughter but apparently she was not here yet. "There's no need."

"It's the first time you're seeing your daughter," Nancy rubbed his arm. "I think you need a moment alone, right?"

Ever since they met at the gardens, Sammy and Sherlock became sort of friends. Sherlock liked teaching Sammy chemistry and playing chess with her. Sammy, as Nancy, was good company. When his parents, Mycroft, Greg, Billy or Mrs Hudson visited Sammy joined them too. Almost no one visited the young girl and Sherlock felt pity for her. She barely talked about any one and she only kept talking about a boy called 'Steve' - someone Sherlock knew didn't exist, but it was only a product of her own hallucinations.

"You're terrible at keeping secrets."

Nancy sighed. "Just pretend to be surprised then, okay. I promised I wasn't saying anything."

They were standing at the doorway when Sherlock's eyes met Jane and Sophia. Both were sitting together on a bench. Jane was carrying a plate with what looked like sponge cake and Sophia was sitting next to her, leaning against Jane and cleaning her glasses with a tissue.

Sherlock smiled at the sight of her daughter and his wife. Sophia had changed so much in just a few months. Her long golden hair was loose and she was wearing her favourite pink jumper and her lucky pink trainers. The detective smiled when he remembered the afternoon he took Sophia to those hideous shops to get her a new pair of trainers. They had seen so many models, and they had visited so many shops until Sophie finally declared she wanted the first pair of pink trainers they had seen. He had always spoiled her. Jane was a bit more strict, but the detective loved spoiling Sophia. She was his only child after all.

"Daddy!" Sophia literally jumped over him. She curled her arms around his neck and clung his legs around his waist. "I missed you, daddy!"

Sherlock knew she was crying. And he cried a bit too. It had been long months since he last saw her. There had been no day without missing her. The detective closed his eyes and inhaled her scent. She was wearing that sweet floral perfume his parents had given her for her latest birthday - that birthday he missed but was told about in one of her letters. Sophia never stopped sending him letters. She sent him a new one almost every day and if not, almost every week.

The detective pressed a kiss to her cheek and caressed her long golden hair. He let himself feel the soft hair, her golden hair, Jane's hair. "I've missed you too, Sophie."

Jane stood up and handed Nancy the plate with the cake. "For the tea," Sherlock heard Jane saying to his nurse.

"Want some now?"

"No, I think we'll walk a bit."

"Okay," Nancy smiled at Jane. "I'll be with Sammy now. If you need anything just call me, okay?"

"Sure."

Once Nancy left, and once Sophie had kissed her daddy's cheeks and had hugged him as much as she wanted, Sherlock felt Jane's fragile arms on his neck and her soft, thin lips on his. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," Sherlock said, holding his wife in his arms and looking into those blue orbs he had missed so much. It was the first time they were seeing each other since he was hospitalised. After that night when he ran away from the hospital, almost shoot Jane and had another attack, Sherlock was taken to the hospital again and he recovered quickly. And once he was allowed to leave, he visited Jane who was also in the hospital fighting for their baby and told her he wanted to be taken to a hospital before his illness made him hurt her or their daughter.

Sherlock still remembered that morning when he said good bye to Jane and their daughter. He explained Sophia he suffered from schizophrenia. Sherlock explained his daughter everything about his illness and that he needed to go to a special hospital for people like him for a while. When Sophia asked him for how long he was going to be away, Sherlock promised he was coming back soon, very soon.

At the beginning he was only allowed to see very few people. He didn't show violent attitudes, but his mental state didn't allow him to see his own daughter and the doctors said it was for the best. For six months his only visitors were his parents, Mycroft, Greg, his landlady, and his protégé Billy. Jane, as much as she wanted to, she had never visited him until today.

Jane didn't visit Sherlock not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't. The night Sherlock had an attack she almost miscarried their baby. Ever since that night, the doctors told her she had to be careful and rest if she wanted her baby to survive. Now Jane was almost seven months pregnant and their baby was safe.

Today, it was the first time Jane and Sophia were visiting Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at Jane with his piercing eyes and smiled. She looked so beautiful. She was wearing a whitish dress and flat shoes. Her hair was long till her shoulders and she looked as beautiful as Sherlock remembered she was. The detective looked at Jane and tried to memorise everything about her: her few wrinkles, her thin lips, her sandy hair, the softness of her hands, her bright smile and those features he saw on her daughter, those features Sophia had completely inherited from her.

"You look great," Jane said, pressing a kiss to his cheek and handing him a bunch of flowers. "These are from your mother's garden."

Jane busied herself with the collar of Sherlock's shirt when the detective leaned in and pressed another kiss to her lips.

"You look beautiful."

"I look like a planet."

"A beautiful planet, indeed."

The three of them walked all around the wide gardens for long minutes. Sophia took Jane and Sherlock's hand and the way. She told Sherlock all about school, about her good grades, about her friends, about her dog Gladstone, a present uncle Mycroft had given her for her latest birthday and about grandma Hudson and her cookies and grandma Holmes and her cakes.

Sophia told Sherlock about her holidays at grandma and grandpa Holmes' while Jane stayed at hospital and about the time uncle Mycroft took her back to London in a helicopter he said belonged to a very old friend. Sherlock listened to Sophia and asked her how her violin lessons were going so far and if she had been practising as she had told him so in her letters. The detective listened all about about Charly, or Charlotte, the teenager who lived across their street and was teaching Sophia how to play the violin. So far Sophia could play two songs and the two of them were popular songs, unknown by the detective. But Sherlock said he would love to listen to her playing some day.

Jane remained silent all the while and smiled occasionally. Her eyes were low, fixed on the green grass and the beautiful flowers planted all around the gardens of the hospital. She chuckled when Sherlock said he had no idea who those pop artists Sophia kept talking about were but that he would of course listen to her playing the violin.

The three of them finally sat on a bench when Jane said she needed to rest for a bit. Sophia sat between her parents and held her daddy's hand.

"When are you coming back home, daddy?"

"Soon."

"But when?"

"Before the baby comes."

Sophie turned to her mother. "And when is the baby coming?"

"Eight weeks, more or less."

"But that's a lot of time," Sophia complained. "I want you to come home _now!_"

Sherlock gave his daughter's hand a squeeze. "I can't leave before, Sophie. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, daddy. I understand," She smiled tenderly at him. "I know you need time."

"Hello, Mr Holmes!"

"Hello, Sammy."

The young girl looked at Jane and then at Sophia. "Your family?"

"Yes. This is my daughter, Sophia." Sherlock then looked at Jane. "And she's my wife, Jane."

"Hello." Sammy said, shaking Jane's hand and smiling at Sophia. "I wanted to meet you. Mr Holmes told me a lot about you! You're more beautiful than he said you were!"

"She's Sammy," Sherlock introduced her.

"Thank you," Jane said, smiling at the young girl. "You're the famous Sammy, huh?"

"Famous?"

"A little birdie told me you're very good at chemistry."

Sammy smiled shyly. "A bit. Mr Holmes knows much more than me..." She then turned to Sherlock. "Nancy said you brought a cake."

"Ah yes. D'you want some?"

"Yes! Mr Holmes said your cakes are very yummy!"

"Thank you. Sophie, why don't you and Sammy go inside and tell Nancy to prepare tea?"

"Sure!" Sophie took Sammy's hand and both walked inside, leaving the detective and the doctor alone.

Jane noticed Sammy was younger than she thought she was. Everyone had been telling her about Sammy and about Sherlock teaching her chemistry and playing chess with her. They said Sherlock, somehow, was trying to make Sammy understand the boy she kept on talking about was not real but a mere product of her own imagination. Nancy once told Jane Sherlock had become very protective of Sammy and that the young thing sometimes joined him when her in-laws, or her brother-in-law, or her landlady or Greg visited. Apparently no one visited Sammy and, somehow, Sherlock's friends and family became also hers.

She felt pity for Sammy. She was just seventeen, she was very young and clever and had a whole life ahead and her family rejected her because of her condition. Jane knew how important family support and help were in the road to recovery. Sherlock and Sammy would never recover and overcome their schizophrenia. But they could cope with it and try to live a life with it.

"No one visits her." Sherlock's eyes followed Sophie and Sammy. "She calls me 'dad' sometimes."

"She's just a child." Jane said with a sigh. "Poor thing."

They sat together in comfortable silence. Jane, not meeting Sherlock's eyes, held his hand and laced their fingers together. Jane's fingers felt Sherlock's wedding ring and then her eyes saw it. It was very polished and it looked as if it were new. They had been married for almost ten years and Sherlock's ring looked brand new. Because he cared.

"So... how are you? You like it here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's calm. But I'm bored." Jane chuckled. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

"And the baby?"

"The baby's fine too," Jane laughed a bit. "It kicks far too much sometimes. Mostly at night. Ugh, it's kicking now." She looked up and met Sherlock's eager eyes. "Give me your hand."

Jane took Sherlock's hand and pressed it against her baby bump. For almost ten long seconds Sherlock felt his baby kicking inside Jane. She smiled all the while. Sherlock's hand felt warm and then she her smiled disappeared when she noticed how much she missed his touch.

"It's a boy," Jane commented when their baby stopped kicking. "Just eight weeks before he comes."

"Is he..." Sherlock looked away. "going to be normal?"

Jane gave Sherlock's hand a comforting squeeze. "He's fine, Sherlock. More than fine, actually. The doctor says he's very healthy. He's bigger than average, but that's okay... I'll have a c-section. I don't like it, but it's the best option."

"I'll be there."

"I know."

"No, Jane. I'll be there."

"I know -"

"No," Sherlock interrupted her. "The doctor thinks I can leave soon."

Jane caressed his cheek. "I know. I talked to him and Nancy. They say you're doing very well. They say you don't see Moriarty any more."

Sherlock looked away, at the nearest tree, and saw James Moriarty there. He was wearing a blue suit and sunglasses and he was chewing gum. The detective frowned and heard Jim laughing at him.

"I can see him. At night he sits on my bed and tell me stories..." Jane was looking at Sherlock, alarmed. "He tells me the tale of Sir Boast-A-Lot."

The doctor listened to the tale and looked away to wipe the tears in her eyes. Sherlock didn't seem to notice and carried on telling Jane the tale about the Knight of the Round Table who lied about the dragons he had slain and all the damsels he had rescued. The Knights of The Round Table stopped believed Sir Boast-A-Lot's stories and decided to send him to exile so he could no longer see his family - Sir Boast-A-Lot had a wife and a little girl. At the end Sir Boast-A-Lot died alone, his wife married another knight and his daughter forgot him.

"He says he's going to kill Sophia."

Jane held Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock, you know he doesn't exist, right?"

"Yes. He's here right now. He's laughing." Sherlock turned to see Jane, but she was not meeting his eyes. Her blue orbs were on her lap, on her hands on her baby bump feeling her baby inside her kicking. "He's always with me... when I wake up, when I'm with the doctors, when I play chess with Sammy. He follows me everywhere. But I know he's not real. He's just like Steve."

"Who's Steve?"

"Sammy's boyfriend. She thinks Steve lives with her - that both live here. She doesn't know this is a hospital for schizophrenics like us. She thinks we're neighbours and that this is a park."

"Does anyone know you still see him?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I told the doctors I don't see him because I want to be with you when the baby comes. I know otherwise I'll be made to stay here for years. I want to be there when our baby comes and I want to see him and Sophie growing up."

"But Sherlock," Jane blinked and tears rolled down her cheeks. "You know you need to tell the doctors the truth, right? I want you to be with me when the baby comes and of course I want you to see our children growing up... but it could be dangerous not only for you but also for us."

"I know he's not real," Sherlock repeated. "I know he's the product of my own mind. But I won't let him convince me of the opposite." Jane remained silent. "I learnt I have to ignore him."

"I don't want to see you suffering," Jane finally confessed. "I wish I could stop it but I can't. For ten years... for ten years you were here with me," Jane pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I'll always be with you, Sherlock. Listen to me - Moriarty does not exist, okay? I know you can see him, hear him and that he seems real to you, but he's not real."

Sherlock nodded. "I know."

"_Come back_, Sherlock."

The detective, suddenly, gave himself to Jane's arms. He rested his head against Jane's chest and pressed a kiss to her skin, between her breasts, and closed his eyes. He felt the calm beats of Jane's heart. He felt calm and secure in her arms and suddenly, Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

Moriarty was gone.

Jane pressed a kiss to his forehead. "We need to think of names."

The detective looked into Jane's eyes. "Why? You've already chosen one."

"Yeah, but I wanna hear your opinion." Jane said and laughed. "Your mother says it's old fashioned. Apparently she's not quite comfortable with my Scottish ancestry. She suggested 'Sherrinford'."

"I don't care hat my mother thinks. I love your Scottish ancestry," Sherlock whispered as he sat back on the bench and kissed Jane.

And then, old Sherlock was back. That old Sherlock who never cared for what others said, who always contradicted his own mother and who would always come back after resting in her arms and listen to her heartbeats was back.

"We never had a honeymoon."

Jane shrugged. "We never did things the normal way, did we."

"Hmm. We could travel for our tenth anniversary."

"By then we'll have a nine year old daughter and a newborn." Jane gave him a sweet smile. "I don't think we'll be able to travel."

"It was worth a try."

They heard Sophia's voice calling them. She was with Sammy and apparently tea was ready. Jane was hungry and pregnancy had really increased her appetite. She stood up and offered Sherlock her hand.

The detective noticed she was wearing her wedding ring. It was well polished, well kept and looked brand new. They had been married for almost ten years and her ring shinned and looked brand new.

Because Jane cared.

He took her hand.

"Thank you."

"What for? It's just a cake."

Sherlock kissed her hand. "You trusted me from the beginning. I know I'm not the easiest person to be with. I'm a schizophrenic with sociopath tendencies." Sherlock stood up and wiped the tears in Jane's eyes. "Thanks for always being with me, despite of my illness and all the things I did."

"You could be a dick sometimes, that's true." Jane smiled and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. "But I love you. With or without illness, I'll always love you."

On their way back inside, Sherlock looked back at the tree where he had seen Moriarty earlier.

He wasn't here any more.

Sherlock looked everywhere, but James Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

Later that day, when it was time to sleep, Moriarty didn't visit Sherlock again. For long days, weeks and months, Sherlock didn't hear that laughter and he didn't see that macabre smile any more.

Six weeks later Sherlock was holding Jane's hand when the doctors told them everything was going to be okay. They had nothing to be worried about because apparently their baby was eager to come to the world. Jane could not have this baby alone because it was far too big and there were risks for a woman of her age.

This time the bag wasn't forgotten. This time they had decided a name before they ever got to the hospital. This time Jane wasn't nervous. She knew what was to have a child and she knew the pain she was enduring would come to an end soon - when she had her baby in her arms.

This time Sherlock was nervous. He knew what was to have a child. He knew the pain Jane was enduring and he had another reason to love her: she was giving him a child. Another child. He met people like him and not so many had the support he had. Sherlock had, besides his parents, his brother and his few friends, a wife and a daughter who supported him and helped him, every day, to live and endure his illness.

And then, there he was.

A very big baby who had a mop of dark hair and cried, cried, and cried. He stopped crying only when he was given to his parents. He was first given to Sherlock who couldn't help but cry a bit. And once it was in Jane's arms, she remarked how much this baby and Sherlock looked alike.

Of course.

"This is officially the last."

Jane smiled. "Thought you'd try to convince me three is better than two."

"No," Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled his son's scent. "Our family's complete."

James Moriarty and the tale of Sir Boast-A-Lot were long forgotten the day Sherlock held Jane's hand and both welcomed their second child, Hamish Watson Holmes.

_**The End.**_


	16. Epilogue: Forever loved

**AN: Thanks for following, reading and reviewing!  
**

**Hope seeing you soon in another story :)**

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**EPILOGUE: **

**Forever loved  
**

This story began one Christmas morning, fifteen years ago. Jane and Sherlock were not together, but they were very good friends indeed. Jane was married to another man, but she was expecting a child no one could imagine at that time was going to be Sherlock's daughter. Jane was almost seven months pregnant when, that Christmas morning, sitting at the Holmes' living room, she believed she could forget who had been and what had done the man she was married to. She believed she could forget and ignore his past.

But she couldn't.

At the moment, she believed she could _and_ she forgave Matthew Morstan, or whatever his name was. For Jane later she knew his first name was 'Alexander' and not 'Matthew'.

Jane remembered that morning as if it had been yesterday. She woke up before anyone else, or that's what she thought. She put on her dressing gown, her sleepers and brushed his hair and teeth and downstairs she met Sherlock. He was taking his medicines and she, as the doctor she was, checked he was taking all his pills.

"Should I forgive him?" She asked after a long moment of silence. Immediately after a cup of tea for Jane and a cup of coffee for Sherlock, they decided to go on and walk all around Mr and Mrs Holmes' vast garden. Jane had her arm hooked with Sherlock's for support as her prominent belly made walking difficult at times.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment. "I don't know."

Of course he knew the answer. Sherlock wanted to scream and tell everyone who Dr Morstan really was but he just couldn't. He knew he had only scratched the surface: Matthew Morstan was more than everyone believed or could ever believe. Yet, he knew he would break Jane's heart and that was the last thing he wanted.

And what infuriated Sherlock the most was the fact that Jane was carrying his child. It was unfair. It was unfair enough that that man was still lying next to Jane every night. It was unfair enough that she was still wearing that wedding ring.

Sherlock knew he should have stopped that wedding. He should have said something and stop it. Of course. Had he done that, he would have spared Jane all that suffering. But she was expecting Morstan's child and that, Sherlock knew, would always keep them together. Because Sherlock knew that if Morstan was to disappear from the world, Jane would never forget him. No. No when she had his child. And that, Sherlock knew, he could never break - that connection he knew they would ever have.

Had Sherlock known that fifteen years later that child was going to be his and that Jane was going to forget who Dr Morstan had been, he wouldn't have believed it.

Jane gave him a weak smile. "Come on, say it."

"You shouldn't." Sherlock finally admitted. "He had lied to you from the very beginning of your relationship. He did not only gave you a fake name but he also faked a whole life story. He took advantage of your strange tendency to feel attracted to psychopaths, sociopaths, killers, criminals of all the sort, boring teachers, members of the medical staff and schizophrenics." The detective looked at his friend. "And that's me, hello."

"Don't say that, Sherlock."

"It's true. And he shot at me."

"I know. I don't feel like forgiving him," Jane admitted. "Eighty percent of me wants to kill him and the twenty percent left wants to just..." She trailed off when she felt Sherlock's hand taking hers and their fingers laced together. "He's the father of my baby. And I love him and I can't help it."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I'll just have to deal with it, right? After all, he's what I like and that's why I chose him."

"I won't let Magnussen hurt you."

Jane gave him a smile and both walked back together to Sherlock's house where everyone was already up and waiting for breakfast to be served.

* * *

Fifteen years later, Jane and Sherlock were married and had two children: a fourteen year old girl who practically devoured every book within her reach and a five year old boy who was far too much like his father. Fifteen years later they were again at Sherlock's parents' house and it was a very lovely Christmas morning when Sherlock woke up before everyone else and looked at the woman lying next to him on his bed.

Jane was lying on her side, facing him. She had a hand tucked under her head and another under the covers. Sherlock paid special attention to her face. Jane looked so peaceful in her sleep Sherlock wished he could see her dreams. He often wondered, when she woke up with a smile, what she had been dreaming about and if he had been in her dreams.

The detective looked at the lips that had been his the previous night. His eyes fell on her arms, which he had felt around him the previous night. Then, his eyes ventured to her body underneath the covers, that body he made love to the previous night. His piercing eyes met her breasts and he remembered her breastfeeding their children years ago. And finally, he looked at her neck and at her chest and remembered all the times he had pressed his face against her and felt her heartbeats in order to come back and made the dark shadows go away.

He wished he could woke her and ask her to hold him again. The detective wished he could press his head against her chest, there, between her breasts and press kisses to her skin and listen to Jane's soft whispers. _Come back. Come back. He's not real. Come back._

But she was sleeping.

It could wait.

* * *

"How are you feeling?"

Jane was sitting in the living room. She had a blanket covering her legs and she was just reading another one of those boring magazines about women and pregnancy. She looked pale and weak. "A bit sleepy. Couldn't sleep last night."

"Thinking whether you should forgive him or not?"

She nodded. "Where's he?"

"Outside."

"Could you tell him to come in?"

"You're going to forgive him."

"I don't have any choice, do I?"

Yes. You can get a divorce. Come and live with me again. He doesn't deserve you. He doesn't deserve the child inside you. I can protect you. I can do it, Jane. Just let me. Jane, I love you.

Sherlock noticed Jane was looking at him worriedly and that he had not said all the things he wished he could.

Outside he found Morstan looking at the horizon. It was cold and he wasn't even wearing a jacket. Sherlock didn't need to look at him to see how nervous the man was. He knew Jane was to tell him soon whether she forgave him or not.

The detective looked at that man and wondered what Jane had seen on him. He had spent hours and hours staring at his ceiling at night, thinking what Dr Morstan had that he did not. Sherlock wanted to know what Jane saw on him, what she liked of him and why is that she loved him so much.

Ah, yes. A top trained assassin. Sherlock forgot that bit. It was so painfully obvious it made Sherlock sick. It was unbelievable that no one ever discovered who Dr Matthew Morstan was. Not even Mycroft saw it, when he had men on Jane and kept a close eye on her.

That man, Morstan, was very clever.

"You think she'll forgive me?"

"She shouldn't. You're a liar."

Matthew chuckled. "She will then."

"Just go inside."

It was true the walls of his house were very thin. Sherlock didn't need to glue his ear to the nearest wall to listen to them. Jane forgave him and they kissed. She cried and he listened to Morstan's comforting, soothing words and all his promises. Sherlock knew there was no room for him there and that that baby, which was coming soon, and his friend, Jane, were not only his any more.

Had Sherlock known in less than an hour Jane was going to become a widow and that the child she was carrying was going to be his, he wouldn't have believed it.

* * *

Fifteen years later, Sherlock was in his bed with Jane and she opened his eyes and met his. She gave him a sleepy smile and yawned widely. She stretched her arms and pressed the covers further against her.

"Morning." She gave him a quick peck on the lips and tossed to lie on her back. "I wish we could stay in bed all day long."

"We can, actually."

"Not at your parent's. What time is it?"

Sherlock threw an arm around her. He rested his head against her chest and pressed a kiss to her skin between her breasts. "Stay with me."

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing and Jane understood. She rubbed his back and pressed kisses to his forehead for a long while.

"Come back."

He wondered how he survived for thirty years before Jane came along. He used to hate women. Now he could barely survive a day without one, without his Jane. Sherlock could barely survive a weekend when she left and returned to her old town to check her brother was clean and doing well. He could barely survive when she worked but now that she was fully dedicated to their family, he didn't need to worry any more.

* * *

It broke his heart seeing her crying for a man who did not worth it. Jane ran to him and hugged him tightly. She cried and cried and it didn't matter what he said, Sherlock could not stop her tears. When she hugged him, Sherlock felt her pregnant belly and he also felt her daughter kicking. He had never asked Jane to let him feel her baby kicking or moving, but this time her baby was kicking and Sherlock realised it was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt.

When he told her Matthew killed Magnussen and, consequently, he was killed for it, Jane cried as Sherlock had never seen her doing it before. She cried more than when he faked his death and Sherlock was jealous. Morstan, or whatever his name was, didn't deserve Jane, the child she was carrying, the love she felt for him, her tears, and her sadness.

Jane deserved more. The detective knew he could give her all the things she needed: he could be her husband, the father of her daughter which was now fatherless, and Sherlock knew he could also love Jane deeply, without lying.

"I was going to kill him," Sherlock confessed. "That's why I asked him to bring his gun. Magnussen's men wouldn't have killed me knowing my brother is the British government."

Jane said nothing but cried in his arms for long minutes.

Sherlock didn't want to say this but he knew he had to.

"He said he loved you. He made me promise I was going to take care of you and your baby."

* * *

Fifteen years later, that baby he promised he was going to take care of was sitting across him. Her blue eyes, definitely Jane's, were focused on another book while she had breakfast and told her grandparents all about school. Her long, golden hair, Jane's, was braided and her glasses were not keeping her beautiful eyes from sight, but they enhanced their colour.

"What are you reading this time?"

"_The Hobbit_," Sophia replied, closing the book and finally focusing on her breakfast. "I'm reading it to Misha."

"We never finished it."

Sophia smiled. "You can read us the last chapter tonight."

"Of course."

* * *

The Christmas after Morstan's death, they were again staying at Sherlock's parents. This time Jane a lovely baby girl. This time Mr and Mrs Holmes had to get childproof things for their son's daughter. This time mummy woke up and found his son feeding his baby a bottle and signing to her lullabies she would have never imagined her son knew.

This Christmas his son was wearing a wedding ring. And mummy saw his son kissing the woman he said the year before was his friend. This time she was his wife. Now his son had two women to look after.

This time Sherlock was finally in peace.

And ever since then, mummy and daddy Holmes welcomed their son, his wife, and his daughter every Christmas. Ever since then they became 'grandma' and 'grandpa'. Now mummy had someone who could help her cooking her favourite cookies. Now she had a little granddaughter to spoil and give a new doll every year. Now dad Holmes had Sherlock once again back home, and Mycroft too, and their detective son's protégé too, who turned out to be quite a nice chap.

* * *

"Presents, presents, presents!" Sherlock saw his son rushing to the stairs with his pyjamas still on and his dark mop of curls all messy. "Daddy!"

No one could stop Hamish that Christmas morning when he was three and mummy Jane and daddy Sherlock said he and Sophie had to wait until after breakfast to open their presents. Grandma and grandpa Holmes said they could open their presents and have breakfast later.

Now, two years later, the children were calmly having breakfast, but very deep inside, both parents knew, they were impatiently waiting for everyone to finish their coffees, teas and whatever they were having in order to go and tore the wrappings and reveal their presents.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Misha?"

"Open the presents with me!"

"Okay," Sherlock sat with his son under the three and both watched the presents. "Which one should we open first?"

Hamish looked at the ones he had been told were his. "This!"

He chose a blue wrapped one. He tore the paper and revealed a box with little plastic soldiers to play with. Just what he asked Father Santa for Christmas.

Five year old Hamish thanked uncle Billy and then took a small box and handed it to his daddy. "For you!"

"Hmm..."

"No deduce!" Hamish scolded him. "Open it!"

Sherlock had to try very hard no to deduce. It was a small sized box which contained an equally small object within. But what could it be?

And there it was.

It was a framed picture.

Nut not any framed picture.

It was a picture of a newborn Hamish lying on his daddy's chest. It had been taken back in Baker Street. Hamish was just a few days old and he was sleeping on Sherlock's chest. The detective was lying on the sofa. His big, warm hand was holding his son. And he was also sleeping.

Both looked in peace.

"You like it?"

"Yes, Misha. I love it. Thank you."

The gifts exchange continued. They took pictures, they laughed, mummy gave him another sweater Sherlock was definitely not going to use, his father gave him another horrid tie and Mycroft gave him, he had to admit, a very useful set of tools for his job. Jane gave him a new shirt and his daughter a book about crime in London. He and Jane gave his mother things for her kitchen, a book about history to his father, they got Mycroft a new umbrella, they gave their son different toys and their daughter some books and some cash for her to get whatever she wanted.

Then, lunch was eaten, tea was drank and suddenly, it was dark and everyone was going to bed.

"'Thank goodness!' said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco-jar'." Sherlock finished reading. He closed the book and looked his son had fallen asleep and that his daughter was the only one listening to him.

Sophia took off her glasses and threw her arms around his neck. "Will you read us 'The Lord of the Rings'?"

"Yes." Sherlock smiled at his daughter and wished she could, somehow, be fully his. His daughter, biologically speaking. But blood never mattered. Not when he loved Sophie as if he were his daughter and when she loved him so much. "Get some sleep, princess."

They had never told Sophia who her real father was. They were never going to. Sophia never suspected and never would. In the years to come, she would never suspect because to her, she simply looked like her mother and her brother looked like her father. It was a secret everyone involved was taking to their graves.

"Night, daddy. Love you."

"Good night, Sophia," Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead and turned off the lights of the room his children occupied every time they visited his parents. "I love you too."

Downstairs, it was only Jane and Sherlock who were still awake. They sat together in the kitchen, and discussed whether to stay for New Year's or go back to London.

"A missing diamond," Jane commented while she went through Sherlock's mails. "Seems interesting. We could back. I don't know how's Mrs Hudson's doing with Gladstone. Will call her tomorrow first thing in the morning. Ah, Sophie forgot to pack more socks, god, I don't know what she's got into..." Jane noticed Sherlock was lost, looking elsewhere. "Hey, you okay?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you taken your pills?"

"Yes."

"Headache?"

"No."

Jane preferred to say nothing. "D'you wanna go back home?"

"No. The kids like it here."

"Okay. Going to bed. Coming?"

"Yes."

Before following his wife, Sherlock turned and watched him sitting on a chair, smiling at him, laughing at him, mocking him.

James Moriarty was there. He had that macabre smile and he was wearing that dark blue suit with that skull tie and Sherlock wished he just could forget him, kill him, made something to make that man disappear.

_"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."_

Sherlock turned but then, he looked back. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

In their room, he took Jane in his arms and pressed a kiss to her lips and then to her forehead. He never told her he could still see Moriarty. He kept on taking his medication and going to the doctor's. Jane looked after him as no one ever did.

The detective saw Jim every time, every where: when he picked up his children from school, around his flat, when he woke up, when he went to bed, when he was in the middle of a case, when he was talking to his doctor... Sometimes they were having dinner all together and he was trying to listen to his daughter's account of her day and Jim would sit next to him, laugh at him, and mock him.

It was hard to ignore him when he could see him every day, all day long. But Sherlock learned he had to ignore Jim. He learned to look away and ignore him. He learned to love his children, his wife, live his life and ignore James Moriarty haunting presence.

Sherlock knew he would see Jim forever. His mind was cursed. He was bound to suffer his presence forever.

"You know what?"

"Hmm?"

"It's been fifteen years."

Sherlock smiled. "Fifteen years," he repeated.

"I love you."

"I love you too. There's been no day without loving you."

Jane gave him a sweet smile. "I'm a bit tired."

"Me too."

"Let's sleep."

**The end.**


End file.
